April 11th

Writing About Dr. Mallard, I Become Confused and Think About Professor Williamson

tea and argyle
stands by the window, hands in the cup of his back.

when he was at Oxford
his hair was already
flopping delicately
on his pink and crinkling forehead

when it rained he'd
stalk through the green edges of
the evening, the end of his coat tails
brimming

it's summer now.
cow and dirt.
asphalt sweat.

when he ghosts to his desk
I'm tapping back down the hallway; I don't want to see him
performing autopsies
on my poetry