Image from de.wikipedia.org
Robert Frost, I stopped
loving you when I started hating him—
the professor who
wore the same polyester slacks to every class,
and ranted about
his stepmother and dot matrix printers
(he loathed them
both in equal measure),
who said listen here missy when he didn’t like my questions,
and collected our
papers but never returned them,
who dismissed Dickinson
as useless,
and found shampoo
pointless—
It was all his fault.
He filtered all your images
through the pool of
sweat on his upper lip
and the green stuff
stuck between his bottom teeth,
leaving only snow
and bugs
and cows with
shriveled udders
and boys who have
no business using buzz saws
and middle-aged men
who wander in the woods
worrying about
walls and whining about apples.
I’m sorry. I
shouldn’t have let him sully
your pristine New
England verses. But I was too tender.
I was only eighteen.
And you seemed so old.
And he was so mean.
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