A gray-haired professor
Once harped on us about our titles.
I was sitting to the left of a cute brunette,
Brita.
We'd ****** the previous night.
And now, we analyzed stories --
Dripping in analogy and pretentiousness.
Our backpacks smelled of coffee,
They got a second-hand kick off the aromas
Of our hangovers and homework,
Completed in the coffee shop just off Harvard St.
I smiled over Janet's essay about a dead lover;
It was called, "Till Death,"
Which was apparently too revealing.
So was Brita's blouse.
My essay was "Black hoodies and blind intersections"
And it tackled grief, fate and the dangers of running at night.
It, too, was too revealing.
Unlike the hoodie it discussed.
I never got the titular lesson,
But figured I was more of a poet anyway.