©1995 By Bob Litton
THE PROFESSIONAL STUDENT’S FAREWELL TO SCHOOL
Let go my scruff! I’ll leave now!
Since you insist
With burly fist
That I’ve grown ivy on my brow.
But what school rule requires I forgo
Time granted me
Of teaching your classes from the back row?
And where’ll the co-eds find delight
When I leav’em?
Sure, it’ll griev’em
To shiver between their sheets all night.
There’s little tolerance anymore
For older students
Whose sole imprudence
Is eating the apple — pulp and core!
The trees unnerved him first — fat, obtrusive trunks
With all true value submerged.
He was quick to appraise the fruit pulpy and bitter,
And unleashed one eye to wander of its own accord
In search of a plant not seemingly made of wax.
Futile! Dribblings of sap unimaginable!
He thought of requesting seedlings from home,
Of ramming them deep into this unwelcoming soil.
Such was the measure of his roots.
Then the populace — the bar-bar speakers!
Like people everywhere, harder to dodge than bullets.
His hungry memory superimposed faces,
Fitting passersby with smuggled visages.
Profferings of camaraderie were flippant
And wholesale: “Six thousand friends await you!”
But he knew the requisite time — counted in moons;
And the risk — the costly welcome
No more retrievable than a hymen. It’s not home.
Such was the measure of his sentence.
LIKE A CHICKEN WITH ITS…
Vision gone cockeyed
Before the cry can sound;
Sensationless wingbone pounding the block
Like a Determinist’s thudding argument;
Then slowly, fitfully, the gaspless, heaving body
Jerking toward its stillness;
And, separate, the eyes staring,
The beak opening,
From severed esophagus
One last red