This semester I’m taking a creative writing course at Shepherd. It’s run as a workshop, with between three and five of us submitting stories to the entire class for critical analysis. My turn is tomorrow; I turned in “God’s First (and Last) Pre-Flood Inspection,” a version of which I posted here last year. Tomorrow I find out what everyone else thought of it. I’ve also had the chance to read what everyone else has written, and the pieces I took home yesterday to review for tomorrow’s class has inspired me to compose a few brief verses. If I may . . .
I don’t know what we’re doing here.
If life has some higher purpose,
I’ve never found it.
If these fermions and bosons arranged
themselves this way to make a point,
it’s lost on me.
I don’t know how to raise a decent kid.
I know of no fool-proof method to ensure
he doesn’t grow up into a prick.
(Although I would suggest avoiding
private school, but that’s just me,
and what the fuck do I know, anyway?)
I do know what makes airplanes fly.
I’m confident I’ve got a pretty
good handle on it.
Though how anyone ever figured that
shit out in the first place is
something I’ll never know.
I haven’t solved many of the little mysteries.
I don’t know why cats act the way they do,
or why people watch football.
But I do know this: People old enough to
be in college should not be writing
fucking poems about dragons.