Reset Forty-Five, Day Eleven

[rejectomorph]

Rising fairly late Saturday afternoon I found the day almost cool, and when I sat in the backyard I heard the mockingbird singing. Despite the almost cool day and the actually cool night, I remained rather lethargic, and resisted heavy temptation to nap. Now I nod off at the computer and risk falling out of the chair. Maybe it's because I skipped dinner again, and simply ate a midnight snack of cheese and crackers. Food just demands more attention than I have to give anymore. I'm becoming a sloth. A sleepy, sleepy sloth.




Sunday Verse

Prof of Profs

by Geoffrey Brock


I was a math major—fond of all things rational.
It was the first day of my first poetry class.
The prof, with the air of a priest at Latin mass,
told us that we could “make great poetry personal,”

could own it, since poetry we memorize sings
inside us always. By way of illustration
he began reciting Shelley with real passion,
but stopped at “Ozymandias, King of Kings;

Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!” —
because, with that last plosive, his top denture
popped from his mouth and bounced off an empty chair.

He blinked, then offered, as postscript to his lecture,
a promise so splendid it made me give up math:
“More thingth like that will happen in thith clath.”