Dream 3-17-19

Dream 3-17-19
 
Our professor keeps the classroom  
deliberately dark  
so that with its Cathedral high ceiling  
it will provide a church-like feeling  
for us young poets to show respect  
for the craft with sacred silence.
 
There is a projector machine to put up our work  
that we especially want to share with the class.  
But each time a young woman takes advantage  
by placing her poetry directly into the machine  
without waiting for the professor to do the honors.  
Her poems are invariably about sex.
 
So after one class, I dare to approach her.  
She brashly tells me what she thinks of me,  
that my ego trip is to sit at the throne of the group  
which makes me the beating heart of pomposity  
in her book.
 
She shakes her lush curls and laughs  
like a medieval witch on the hunt  
to expose hauteur.  
Then she dashes out of the room like Peter Pan  
on the run from a Broadway show  
which ran too long.  
 
I chase after her in hot pursuit  
until we arrive at the abandoned football field  
with its knee-high grass.  
She pushes the mower over the tufts and I yell,  
“Soledad!”
She shouts back, “Yes, this is my only solitude!”
And I watch her make a path through the grass  
while blazing a trail through life.