Sunday, February 12, 2012

Ink wound irritants

Well, the happy people are going to church, and I'm Left Behind.

Caught in one of those moods

Which I hope Jesus doesn't catch me in on the Last Day.

A mood where the work piles,

The pressures of doing cancel being,

The people waiting matter more than the person plodding.

I have papers surrounding me

to grade with marks which I don't feel like marking.

I have books opened as if they're laying topless on a  Mexican beach

demanding stare, sunscreen, self-reflection (and incrimination).

I have cats meowing or pawing the door when they want service,

Needing me, needling me, with inscrutable eyes, claws, incisors:

Yesterday's adorable companions, today's taxi drivers.

Today, I think of all the cost of no pay back,

The long hours; the unfair advantage math instructors have

when I cut famous poetry lines to tape onto cards for four hours.

Gloomy words even  like "I heard a fly buzz when I died" or

"About suffering they were never wrong." Stab, slice,

and I'm responsible for being the guide into a field of flowers?

I think I should give.

Crawl back into bed.

Go eat a pile of chocolate cake.

I hope those church folk are singing pretty while I am

burning at the stake for poetry and felinity and

sacrificial lambnity.

As Mark Strand wrote, "Ink runs from the corners

of my mouth" and I agree.

Death such, for an English teacher,  would indeed be

an expected kind of bleed.

[I feel better now. Thank you for hearing violins and cats screeching when kicked.]

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