Dead Poetry

The dead poet said something to us,

  As we sat around in his classroom,

On a Thursday afternoon,

  In the middle of October.

He said that we don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute.

 He said that we read and write poetry because we are part of the human race,

And that the human race is full of passion.

           Love. 

Beauty.

                     Poetry.

Romance.

                  Courage. 

                                        Laughter . . .

He said those are what we stay alive for. 

He stood up on top of a desk, and he said that life is about passion. And he was pretty damn passionate about passion. 

Anyway, he went on and on. 

He yapped and yapped. 

And when I had heard enough from this damn dramatic romantic, I raised my hand politely and waited.

When he called on me, 

    I asked him if all that was jib-jab he was spouting was true, 

          then why,

Oh why, 

 . . . Did he kill himself? . . .

. . . He didn’t speak after that.

CH 1/12/25