Musings in a Technical Writing Class

Your
chin rests
against palm,
back slightly
arches away
elbow touches
the armchair,
while you listen intently
as if your life–
depends
on what I teach.

But eloquent as your
silence
amid the hoopla
of the class,
I yearn
despite the complex
sentences and
the subordinating
conjunctions
that connect–
our un-
paral
leled roles.

I cannot grope for that
precise word
equating the abstract
term “love.”

For shame,
we are both victims
of the so-called technical:
formal
specific
objective.

How I long to tell you
this is all
a lie!
disregard rules
like I told you,
how ideas
flow
like
a
stream
in
our
minds.

Even my class record
nor this table
could not–
divide us–
as I
imagine
you and me
untangling
the complexities of
verb tenses
and dangling modifiers;

all I have
is my pen…

and
metaphors.

 

 

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