I like to preach that I hate poetry like it’s a great accomplishment that I should be awarded for. But in reality, I look at poetry as an art I will never be able to master. For that, I will continue to resent it for being beyond my ability. However, I will also continue to appreciate the talent of poets. This is a poem I wrote a few years ago for my first creative writing class. The assignment for this poem was to emulate the style of American poet Frank O’Hara in one of his not-so-famous poems, “The Day Lady Died.” At the time, I called my poem:
The Day My Phone Died
It’s 6:30 a.m. on a Thursday
an unusual time to set an alarm,
Which is why I sleep for another thirty minutes and wake up
realizing the mistake I’d made.
I take a shower and get half dressed
then put my phone to charge while I
take out my laptop and start working on something
that should have been done days ago.
Four hours pass and I finally end my conclusion,
wishing to be asleep for a third time.
I rush to get the other half of my clothes and
get out the door to the library where I wait in line to
print the paper I recently finished,
texting my friend while I wait for a boy to figure out how to work the electronic.
I finally print two copies after making a mistake on the first and rush
to class hoping I’m not too late.
I daydream while others take notes thinking about what could’ve been
a great night’s sleep, what could’ve been a
great paper, what could’ve been a great
life, if not depending on research
articles and grades for supposed future happiness.
I wake up with the clock unfazed by my mind’s attempt to leap forward in time.
