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.