| YOUR CALL IS IMPORTANT TO US
Not the way your panties ride up at work
when you lean towards the screen.
Not your fantasies of weapons-grade plutonium,
your graying cockatoo, or your love of silt.
Not your appetite for Corn Chex, your deftness
for making an elegy out
of coffee grinds, but your call, your call
is important to us. Waiting can be such
sweet sorrow. Tomorrow comes
tomorrow. All representations are currently
busy with other constructions:
Amber's liberating paper
clips, Sasha's playing solitaire
with Bootsy, and Achmed's
extending his cube by deleting a wall.
Less is more, sure, but don't be deterred.
Patience is a virtue, a brick, a crucifix
dipped in jelly. Your call is important to us.
Maybe not now, but always.
ALL THE DOO DAH DAY
John wanted to write an ironic poem
about death. About, the preposition.
Death. You read right.
Said it had never been done before.
"At least not the way I'm going to do it,"
he chirped. John had blue eyes,
a butter-colored ponytail,
and skulls tattooed the length
of both arms. He wore black everything.
His face sagged with metal.
He just turned 24.
He smelled like dirt.
At the coffee shop, he refused
to frown or entertain talk
about hangovers, free range pot roast,
or Betsy Zelinski's breasts,
either of them. "I'm going
to call it Death," he said,
"in quotation marks."
The barrista smiled politely.
Two guys in suits ordered lattes.
The war on terrorism continued.
A biker in the corner raised
a beefy fist to his mouth,
stifling a yawn.
TEACHING IN AMERICA
That's a really interesting question,
and I'm glad you asked it.
Too often we feel insecure
about our own knowledge
and embarrassed that others
will judge us for what we don't know.
In this class, there are no stupid questions.
I hope to learn as much as everyone here.
We can only grow individually
if we all grow together.
If you head straight down the hall,
and then make a right, you'll
find the Mens Room.
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