I Am Not Coming To Class Today

My students will not care.
They will revel in the time off. Listen to their IPods. Lay on the beach. Drink beer.

Like Billy Collins, I stand staring out the window this morning.
Billy says that’s what poets do.

I believe him. Who can doubt a Poet Laureate who steals lines from Ferlinghetti
and writes about the trouble with poetry?
Billy says poets stare out windows.
I want to be a poet today, not a teacher.

From my windows, I see

grey and brown tree limbs sprouting small, scarcely noticiable green niblets.
Shy and unassuming, they push their little heads above the moss-covered branches that quiver just a tad in the wind.

I want to burrow past those fresh bumps, taste the dark marrow of those trees on my tongue.

I see

the new garbage man. He wears wraparound sunglasses and his teeth shine as white as the high-quality, 8 ½ x 11 bond paper that rests in the paper tray of my printer waiting for the sharp bite of black ink.

I would like a bite from the garbage man.

In my kitchen, the light filters through the dirty window and screen,
casting gritty, grainy shadows on the counter top
cluttered with smeared banana and the careless trail of oatmeal flakes.

I will not come to class today.

I have odd lines to scribble and scratch in my notebook.
Squiblets and niblets of words to track across the page.
I must watch the sky, as its shades of blue shift and waver in the passing day.

I have dirty windows that need cleaning. I will use amonia and old newspapers.
The smell so sharp, my eyes will sting.
I’ll leave streaks across the glass that refract the light,
sketching strange patterns on the dark cherry wood of my dining room table.

I will not come to class today.
I am entirely too busy.
I have windows to stare through and poetry to write.