A lifetime of data.
Almost none of it information.
I want to go back to school —

I want you old school,
high school,
no mature fancy wanting here.

I want to remember what it was like
to just want you
and ask for what I want.

I want to relearn
how to yearn.  How to show
it with no parsing of millions

of internal rules and sifting of
reasons.  Just to want again
old school, hallway glance,

brush-by, staring for hours
and hours.  Want awkward
but obvious.  I want you

old school, smell in the air
of crucial locker notes and incidental
books notable for covers doodled full

with obsession.  A lifetime
of data hasn’t turned into
information of any use; I want you

old school, want to carry
books, lurk around your schedule.
I want every friend of yours to whisper.

It ought to be obvious to you
how I old school I am.  It is to me.
I’m still twisting my toe

in the schoolyard dirt,
and I still don’t know what to do
with my hands.