The silent snickers catch up to him,
leave him red in the cheeks and puffing like a marathon runner
except
he isn’t racing,
only running the gauntlet:
the gauntlet where we beat him
till he leaks perfection
and addle his wits till his humiliation
is made complete.
Each line a struggle,
each word a finger clinging on poetry’s edge.
Climbing uphill--
and
sliding,
and
sliding,
again.
We doubt he will make it.
Another victim of in-class poetry recitations,
we hum to our neighbors
and take bets as to how long he’ll labor.
Slip your smiles into your pockets (dutifully)!
Listen (politely), but with expressions too earnest
to be real
to disguise that we aren’t listening because--
it’s funny.
But our laughter melts,
turns to sympathy (if it were you?) and pity (poor lonely
soul) and
--wait a few more minutes--
disgust.
Who is he to take so long to be so selfish to make us wait?
Stop. Cease. Fin.
Please?
We can’t bear to pour our sympathy into your hands much
longer.
You stretch us
too thin.
The audience—we grow weary. Bored.
The monotony of your voice
drones,
swaying ever so slightly when you reach an exciting bit
--or one you remember--
like a breeze shook off words from your tongue.
You are grateful for each painstaking word you can muster.
Your audience wishes you
done.
How can Teacher smile, nod, complacent and kind?
Hum low tones in her throat when the poem gets good
--that is--
when you remember the poem.
It does not end and you do not end and I will end—
Relief. Thank God. The air is soaked and silent with it
until
applause!
Thunderous applause.
Not for you,
or your attempt,
but for the relief that floods
to wash us in release.
The poem has slipped from the room already.
Poor precious poem that deserved better than you to
show-case it to the world.
We do not applaud for you.
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