As the Moon Climbs

It would only be the one time.
It’s not my fault. I have too much work,
too many papers to write, deadlines
staring at me like the cold eye
of a gun barrel, Time’s finger
easing back the trigger.

I haven’t slept a full night in days.
Bad dreams and hallucinations dog me:
the dean tears up my diploma, eats it
delicately, one scrap at a time. My mother
rests her head on the guillotine block,
the blade falls, slicing mid-skull,
dollar bills fall out like confetti.

I deserve a break. No one
will ever find out. It’s only a poem
by some faceless amateur like me,
enough to satisfy a professor
but not so good as to garner attention.
This is my dump class, anyway.

Copy. Paste. done. No lightning
strikes me down. I’ll post it
on my website for extra authenticity.
Now to write my essay on ethics
and edit the school’s philosophy journal.

* * * * *

For CombatWords 8/27/10

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