Professor H. H.

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Smoke rings in air reach the top of the room

The stains of brown and gray obviously loom

On the microwave oven: empty mugs

On the window pane: a few waspish bugs

She lifts the cigarette to her dried lips

Then drinks coffee in huge gulps, not small sips

She has short curled blonde hair, it’s over-styled

Her desk is a minor mess, quite unfiled

Radio screeches political jargon

The net-plugged computer is always on

She laughs and smiles mischievously at me. . .

Looks around to make sure no one can see –

And in a surreptitious whisper says:

“If you ask me it’s all a stinking mess.”

Yet another smoke, wink, gulp, and a smile

Then a note goes in the circular file

But wait, she’s late to work, and she bolts out

On some occasions I have seen her pout

I felt teased then, but it is a rare sight

And in that office shadowy twilight –

It is hard to tell, but trust what I say:

There was once a time, when it was her day. . .

I once saw her picture from long ago

She was young, and a good blonde one girl show

It was her first day teaching in a class

And on that photo she had a fine ass.

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