61. Professing

I have too much to do deal with today:
unwritten poems to birth,
cue cards to make,
textbook readings,
essays,
finals to study
for

not enough time
to process this, to deal
with another emotion, another
thought

Like an ink blot across the
pedestrian crosswalk
you’re walking leisurely with some
obsequious girl
semi-bald head bulbous,
swollen with veins and greyish -
God, this is what academia
has become?

I have beautiful things to write
about,
things I need to put to
paper:
Italian phrases, operatic loves,
prophetic visions,
etc.

And though I am past,
having missed the chance
to run you over
I cannot forget that moment of
irritation,
scratching at my brainstem
until I am compelled
to immortalize you.
You do not deserve even this,
ingrate.