Non Fib Non Poem
Life in the Adjunct Room
She's having
knee surgery next week. We're all
of us giddy because tonight's the last
class. She says she has a minescal
tear. Or is it miniscule? I'm not sure.
We trade stories about anesthesia.
I ask about Richard III, if anyone knows
why sin will pluck on sin. I mean, I can tell
what it means but why "pluck" and is it
really from the Talmud and was Shakespeare
Jewish? Isn't it interesting? My friends say
no, confusing.
I tell them about the man I met on the subway
who told me his daughter was
sophisticated. She's a senior in high school
but the cops stop her because, her
father says, she's carrying a Kenneth Cole bag
and wearing heels and looks too grownup for
high school. They think she's stolen her bus pass.
My friends think this is a strange story
It's the last class.
I'm hungry would you buy me a banana
It's the last class
My student floats in looking troubled.
Yes, I tell her, you can hand in the paper late.
She's having
knee surgery next week. We're all
of us giddy because tonight's the last
class. She says she has a minescal
tear. Or is it miniscule? I'm not sure.
We trade stories about anesthesia.
I ask about Richard III, if anyone knows
why sin will pluck on sin. I mean, I can tell
what it means but why "pluck" and is it
really from the Talmud and was Shakespeare
Jewish? Isn't it interesting? My friends say
no, confusing.
I tell them about the man I met on the subway
who told me his daughter was
sophisticated. She's a senior in high school
but the cops stop her because, her
father says, she's carrying a Kenneth Cole bag
and wearing heels and looks too grownup for
high school. They think she's stolen her bus pass.
My friends think this is a strange story
It's the last class.
I'm hungry would you buy me a banana
It's the last class
My student floats in looking troubled.
Yes, I tell her, you can hand in the paper late.
posted by Sarah Sometimes at 11:13 PM
2 Comments:
I really like this poem. The ambivalence in each stanza works so well to underscore that sleep-deprived, not quite sure what's going on, state of bone-tired weariness. Is it a miniscule tear (as in crying) or a minescal tear? Are the friends saying, no, it isn't interesting -- or that Shakespeare wasn't Jewish? And when I read your notes on the room and the flourescent lights, I thought: yeah, you captured perfectly that buzzing bright fake-glo light intruding on one's tired brain feeling.
Seredipitously surfed into your blog this morning and glad I did. I'll be back!
Sarah, of course this is a poem! Thanks for the comments you left on my blog.
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