Mr. Professor

Mr. Professor

If you are not a novice Mr. Professor

You must be an amateur.

Your words tremble for judgement,

Posed in essence to collect approval,
Signs of a doubtful beginner: an unsure debutant.
When you teach in between Heidegger and Sartre,
Try to narrate the angst and agonies
Of players from your chosen books,
There goes Oliver on the street squeezed between words,
Faking his limp to earn his lunch; hope a cake for him,
When Lucky talks gibberish,
There go the same-name leaders,
Nominated by the famously faceless us
To bring in halfwits as fillers;
But Mr. Professor these are those on whose shoulders
Writers rest: this for itself and in itself I wonder if you know.

For as long as you mind your Ps and Qs

For praises and classy awards,
For as long as you talk from the wrong side
Of the window, with words that confuse between a twilight
And a rainbow,
Mr. Professor
For as long as you picture the poverty of the characters
Of your novels, where words bled beyond words,
You wouldn’t have a clue that despite feigning as an expert,
A savant, with all appreciations notwithstanding,
Why the lines sing as a refrain before the cracking mirror.

If you are not a novice Mr. Professor

You must be an amateur.