On Having Never Taught You

A Cafe Mots Front Row Perspective

It’s a shame I never had you in class.
You would have made me laugh,
probably on a daily basis.
I’ll mourn the loss of all those laughs and smiles
until something distracts me, and I forget to.

You probably would have been a good student too—
not the kind of good student who always has his work,
studies for tests, takes notes, sits in the front,
and answers all of my questions—
but the kind of good student who thinks for himself
and reads all he can.

There have been others like you—
other creative, comedic clowns—
off to their graduated lives
of being funny for other people.

I have admired you
from the Little Theatre front row.
And I’ll probably remember you,
until something distracts me, and I forget to.

The Art of Genocide

(I wrote the following after contending with ants in the kitchen. . .)

First there were three.
A trio of black vagrants
on a plain of white linoleum.
Mash—mash—mash—
unspotted white again
with a threat of more to come.

Then there were many.
A steady march
toward strategically laid bait.
An invasion of black bodies moving
purposefully in search of something sweet,
something fulfilling.
They splash in a deadly pool,
gulping the poisonous nectar.
If they do not drown themselves
in the paradisiacal font,
they stagger away,
drunk with syrupy bliss.
Toward home they carry
an infectious plan—
a hope of future death.
Mash—mash—mash—
mashmashmashmashmashmashmash

Then there were hordes.
An undaunted mass,
filled with the faith of their number,
and conspiring with the communication
of devout industry.
The noxious well drained dry
only to increase their power,
firm their resolve,
improve their approach.
Spray—spray—spray—
A chemical shower to halt the arrogance,
to assert authority,
to flush improvements.
Black bodies writhe in silent pain,
paralyzed with asphyxiation.
One survivor drags another
across the white plain—
spraysprayspraysprayspraysprayspray

Then there were few.
Alive to wander
confused, intoxicated, undetermined,
with a faint memory of egg-filled nests.
Sweep—sweep—sweep—