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The painted faces call to me
asking for their stories to be told.
“I can’t,” I answer, “I’m taking names
behind this registration desk.
Soon, soon there will be dozens
of writers, riveted and ready
to write you with their fingertips
and keyboards.”
This is an answer that placates.
I long for the time when I am once again a student,
creating brilliant persona poems
and intoxicating snippets of dialogue,
pieces of prose that makes you wish
that you had never taken AP English class,
(so you wouldn’t have the tools to appreciate
the prose, it’s THAT good.)
Today, instead, I will smile
and dutifully place check marks
in corresponding militaristic lines.
Chaos and order.
Creativity and administration.
Maybe, perhaps, one day,
I will be the teacher of such a class
and it will be such a glorious class
that the students will stand on top
of the tables and cheer.
Our life’s work has cycles,
just like fashion:
the trend of this season is checkmarks.
I am making inroads
for subsequent staples
of poems,
plays,
and novels.
Checkmarks can be catapults into greatness.

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