teacher


her flabby throat,
a chicken's neck, red and wrinkled,
swayed from side to side
as rapidly she spoke of smooth transitions,
tender verbs and spicy nouns,
outstanding punctuation,
prostituted metaphors and
cliches that smelled like rotting leaves,
and every third word
to escape from thin, dry lips
was be concrete! be concrete!
be concrete!
and i said, "yes, m'am,
i don't write no humpty-dumpty pomes
when i wanted to say
"i"ll be damned, m'am if any little girl
ever skins her knees
on my poetry."

© Mark E. Dougherty