In high school, it was a poem about a boy that changed everything;
teacher said it wasn’t universal — not the poem itself, but my writing
made me wonder at the meaning of poems for years,
filter everything through a fine sieve that didn’t let much pass.
In college, it was a photograph of a grassy slope shrouded in morning fog,
I liked its solitude, but teacher said it needed a deer Right Here
and left a thumbprint on the photo print that never did wipe off.
No matter, she said the work wasn’t sellable, really, so what’s a mark?
Just yesterday, he called this poem boring and predictable;
teacher said it lacked some outstanding factor mere mortals cannot detect,
apparently kin to gods, he was too high up to see the heart of the matter,
so I wrote it anyway, made a mark and sent it off to the Universe…so there!