The Poetry Professor
The Poetry Professor, puffy white,
Tenured and right,
Bifocals perched and pinching her nose,
Squints over the page with the words I chose
And declares,
“This is not poetry.”
She thrusts outward my creation
Now seared with a large scarlet C.
I don’t second-glance
Only rub the smooth paper between finger and thumb
And mud-like move
Into the darkness of a random hall,
Above a garbage can, let it fall
Lifeless down among wrappers and bags
And half-eaten sandwiches,
And I walk away.
Twenty-six years later
With the gift of age,
I dare use words to paint that day
Shaking, share it on this page
And proclaim in defiance that still feels twenty,
“This IS poetry.
It is MY poetry.”