Professor H. H.
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.