What Do We Do With a Poem?

Here in class, late in the day

Eyes on the prize:

                  outside

a something devoutly to be wished

that is not this

not another task

another exercise

in              frustration

                  interpretation

                  explanation

                  explication. . . confusion

another contusion to the imagination

             another blow to the head

put me, please, into the concussion protocol

from all these words, all these

images, all these things I’m

supposed to know.

I’m sick of feeling small, like I don’t know, like they’re all so bigger than me,

better, inside their books, inside their words, lying in wait for some test, a quiz, some   assessment I can never pass.

What if it could be something else?

If it

just shows up there, like a quarter on the sidewalk,

useful, unexpected, and mostly guilt-free—

just there, being itself, doing its thing, and me,

just there, too, enjoying the beauty

of something small—

a chance at something new today,

a prize, surprise,

no test, no quiz, just me and them

a poem.