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.


Oh, the gray butterfly
Comely, pulchritudinous
(It’s a looker.)
It landed on a flower –
dainty, delicate

I stepped on it
My bad


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