Living as a poet is hard.
See, the teacher is always changing,
not just when September comes,
but every moment the temperature drops,
or the rain does the same.
That moment you started to sweat?
Or turn on the bathroom tap?
Or revel in a short shower?
Or cry? Those things,
they make the coloring time begin,
squeeze you back into a school desk,
hand you a crayon,
tell you to outline your life.
So you do it,
on a thin sheet of math paper.
You were taught to listen,
lead the crayon along in lines,
counting as you do:
one one hundred,
two one hundred.
Don’t get it wet, now.
It’ll smudge.
See how long
you can hold your breath.
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