Good Boy

When I nearly miss
part of eighth grade math class
because I spend lunch
exploring with blonde Diane,
I get the bad feeling

I am going to cease
being the best
good boy,
sink into a dark
indifference.

Mrs Driscoll is getting to her feet
eyes combing the faces in the first row
seeking my scrubbed cheeks.
I should have been untarnished
and she will notice I am gone.

Mrs Driscoll, like the god
I pass and face at the gate
without my good boy honor,
will not
remember my name.