because I was worried
your keys, pencils, notes
would fall out of your
bag;
I told you because it
was probably left open by
Instead, you looked at me,
amused,
asking if it bothered me.
Jerk,
I dress well,
I am well-mannered,
but I don’t go around
correcting things that I think
are out of place,
pretentiously.
This is my last act of sympathy:
make your futile statements;
leave your bag wide open
for all to see
how much of a rebel you are:
while haplessly, your
essay, due Friday,
falls out,
splats in the mud;
rolls away and
drifts, lost,
with the wind.
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One Art, to recognize, must be,
Another Art to Praise.
- Emily Dickinson