Tuesday in Poetry School

In the craft of poetry class where only three or four students talked
and one was always excusing herself to throw up in the bathroom,
the only ones that seemed at all interested were the student with
a hearing aid, the political science major, and the student in the film
program. Most days, only my voice filled the ticking silence. Questions
hung in the air unanswered. No one made a move to slide pen on paper
or type notes. I wanted to say I didn't care, I'd let poems fill the hour
and fifteen minutes any way they wanted, give them room for their
sweep and cadence, their little rooms inhabited by frogs and quiet
ponds, their patterns in sixes, their one step forward and two steps
back, their meander and sprawl like sumi-e brushes loaded with ink
under a brilliant moon. There were days I'd walk out of the room
thinking Am I done? Should I just stop? The resident falcon swooped
out of the sky and rested on the art building's roof. On the sidewalk,
seagulls fought over the remains of someone's breakfast sandwich
in a crumpled wrapper. The book return bin looked forlorn and empty.
Everyone was either buying boba tea or espresso drinks in the cafe.

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