on the kind of stone laid long enough ago
there are cracks in the mortar and weeds
grow through and you sit watching bugs
crawl by on the amphitheater stairs in the
afternoon sun listening to your poetry prof
read you all-too-pornographic renderings
of his own poetry he got published once
and sold to no one other than the members
of his family with whom is close enough to
pressure into a book, but distanced enough
from to not feel awkward about the horrible
undressing he does of himself in his writing
not just of his clothing, but of his own deep
seeded depression.

but it’s okay. because the amphitheater. and
the sun. and the bugs. and the afternoon
spent gaining inspiration from something other
than your teacher’s (disgrace to the human gift
of speech also known as) words.