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.”