Once upon a time, I took a class with a professor, whom we will call Professor Mustache McTwirlington.
Professor McTwirlington taught Advanced Creative Writing, a course which usually allowed its students to choose their own projects. He, however, asked each of us to write fiction, creative non-fiction, and poetry, alternating by week.
I’m not a poet. I struggled my way through Introduction to Poetry and Fiction until the second half of the semester when we moved on to prose. I manhandled verses again in Intermediate Creative Writing and I had a celebratory root beer the day I finished my last poetry assignment.
I was a little irked that Professor McTwirlington was nullifying that root beer.
I struggled through another semester. Mustache McTwirlington earned his name in other ways. I threw my hands in the air.
For my last submission, I wrote this poem, which he called, “perfect.” I’m fairly certain it will go down in history.
A TRAGIC HAPPENSTANCE (DELIGHTFUL)
Oh, the gray butterfly
(It’s a looker.)
It landed on a flower –
I stepped on it