Lamar Howell's Weblog

We’ve got a sub today, 

they say with a sigh that sounds ennui

I watch them file in, glancing my way.

Some force a smile, stopping to say hello

while a few bold souls push their hand

in front of my face and announce their name

I say call me Mister because I may never see them again

and they will forget me anyway,

unless – of course – I do something unusual, which I will.

I call the roll and labor over Hispano-Anglicized and ebonic names,

then I wait as they chat or yell or yawn, eyelids drawn to cell phones

I say ‘excuse me’ and wait, while they abuse me.

They give me five seconds of pretense to prove I deserve

three cents of attention,

then go back to being bobble-head guys and dolls.

They turn to whoever, to say whatever they say

everything but the content of the paper I lay on their desk.

Before they go I ask them for something:

Do you want to hear a romantic poem?

Several mutter yes, because the risk is low,

they know a poem will not hurt or embarrass.

I tell them the background of this love sonnet,

then I start itunes and play something on it from jewelbeat,

They wait out two full measures, in  big-eyed silence.

I start the poem The Love Canals of Mars

Suddenly my ribs effervesce and sends chills bubbling off my collar

I’m thrilled to birth consonant blends and vowel twins and tercets.

What follows is applause or snapping fingers, which I only faintly hear

because . . . I’m raptured by then,

covered in Adamic, pentamic glory,

warmed in Horace’s choicest oils,

bathed in Shakespeares’ tears,

I’m Milton wax, unmoveable, but

satisfied to have spoken even one wordsworth

of poetry.

Sub means itinerant poet.