STRIKE SONNET

So many years an adjunct–now, to strike ’em.
The employer of my mind should get a clue.
In classrooms, brilliant kiddies strut their stuff.
Lips that would suck form prayers to point-of-view.
While I play fairy godmom to their Eros-on-the-page,
my art, half-starved, cavorts in flexicuffs.
(Oh where is Academic Excellence?)
Too-hot October. Insipid apples.
Sidecurls rollerblading.
(The Provost stands for standards.
He’s a standup guy that way.)
A tumble of candied urchins at the bell.
What’s disgusting? Scabby intellect.
Lèse majesté is here to stay.

 

THE BACKYARD OF THE ACADEMY

Turning my compost,
I ignore the perfidy
of Provosts and Deans.