By Thomas Page
I am student teaching a senior level class in Washington, DC. They have to write some poems on these prompts. I decided to try all 30 of them. However, I will not say what the prompt was but what its number was.
Painter’s tape lines the room I wrote all of these in
Listing the requirements of the class held within it.
There seems to be tape all over these poems we read
Because everything has to make sense in rhythm.
The paint, greening at the corners, begins to peel
With the yellow walls showing its vibrancy.
I can’t say who to think of when it comes to it all
Regarding the lines of rhymed dialogue.
Maybe Bede for remembering his own
Or Shakespeare for making his own
Or Gray for eulogizing his own
Or maybe Collins for parodying his own.
I can’t know whether the tape will hold
These attempts at language together.
Maybe I can hold on like something better
That may signal something beyond what it all means in retrospect
Or maybe I’m rambling and fall like a laminated paper
Because I don’t know.