Professor, I was in the hospital all night
with a morphine drip;
shaking and crying as they
poked and prodded.  Really.

The ambiguous nature of your Philosophy class
makes me dizzy—
so I decided to find the meaning of life in a Starbucks cup,
frothy foam, and the banter of friendship.

Yes, Professor, I realize that I missed out on some key terminology,
not to mention a stimulating lecture
on the importance of faith, but

isn’t faith too personal for these stark walls,
your icy dissection?
I find more meaning in the pews of the local Catholic church
even though I am a devout Protestant.
Plus, the topic of Christ as a battering ram
did come up over my second double latte.

Certainly, Professor, I understand the importance of regular attendance.
I missed out on the chance to participate in colorful discussion—

not to mention how each of my comments is torn ear to ear,
scrutinized, or shunned altogether.
This room becomes larger by the word.
I much prefer this cozy table with its international
creamer choices.

Of course, Professor, I deeply value this class:

*It fulfills the Literacy requirement for what I really want to study.

Farewell, Santiago


The waves chortle in ripples; his boat
corks from side to side, slapping the surface
with a bone-bow and starving fingertips:
both have lost their names.  But he
gurgle-speaks to the gull and whispers
ancient lore along the foam-crackled crest.
He’s hooded and hunched,
an old scalawag that never found home
anywhere that didn’t drift like him.
Sand doesn’t speak his language anymore.

But the interwoven arms of corals
can tell stories by the North Star,
times when he was agile and supple;
knee-deep in seaweed and the salt-burbled edge.
The night he slit his palm with a pocket knife
and offered life bounty to the tides
in brotherhood; one drop in,
many drops out over the years

and frayed nets, unfurled ropes.
The redemption of hope glistened in cobalt scales
and weighed at market like poison vials,
polluted inky clouds tarnishing
every coin—hardly worth the bloodletting.
Not anymore.
Dusk fans out orchid and orange blaze;
he yawns a welcome to the mako at last.