In Which I Write A Poem

I have started an evening class.  I went last week and I didn't enjoy it one bit.  Everyone in the class is cleverer than me or better looking than I am or more fashionable.  The young women are all on-trend and wear city shorts and ankle boots.  The older women have straight, swingy hair and big jewellery.  They all work in PR or in publishing houses.  The men are few in number.  They are not cleverer than me or better looking than I am or fashionable.  They all work in shops.  The teacher is very stern.  I hate my evening class. We are given homework.  I am too busy to do my homework.  I spend 10 minutes in work scribbling something and then 10 minutes in a cafe honing what I have written.  I go to my class.  We are put in small groups to discuss our homework.  Each of us has to take it in turn to read what we have written.  We are told that we must give constructive criticism.  The first person reads his work.  I have nothing constructive to say so I say nothing. I think about what he has written.  I make a mental note never to allow myself to be alone with him.  The teacher  walks round the room listening to what people are  reading.  We are re-assembled into the bigger group.  The teacher  asks a woman to read  to the whole class. What she has written is really, really good.  I am consumed with envy and feelings of inadequacy.  The teacher looks round the class.  He is going to pick someone else to read.  He picks me.  It seems I have accidentally written a poem.  I read my poem aloud.  People say nice things to me.  I blush.  During the break a girl comes up to me and asks if she can have a copy of my poem.  She explains that her brother is setting off to fight in the illegal and imperialist war being waged by the UK and the USA.  (These are not her exact words.)  She says the poem will be a great comfort to her parents.  I cannot say no so I say yes.  The people in my class are so nice.  The teacher has proven himself to be a man of great discernment.   For my homework next week I have to write a piece comparing a surgeon to an aeroplane.  I am very excited and brimming over with creative ideas.  I love my evening class.

Comments

[anyresemblance]

I want to read that poem.

[fifi]

Me too.

I love the way you write pretty well anything.

[Scooterdeb]

Stay far, far away from those city shorts! I hope that's one fad that's short-lived!

[Hails]

Yes, please may we read the poem? If one day it is famous worldwide, it would be nice to say we were among the first to appreciate it.

[ganching]

I am afraid that now that my poem is giving succour to Our Boys' families it is classified information. I know this will be a big disappointment to you all.

Thanks for advice re city shorts.

Hello, Hails.

[Freshblade]

An orthopaedic surgeon once asked me if I knew the difference between an orthopaedic surgeon and a rhino. I did not. He told me that one was thick-skinned, horny and charges a lot, whilst the other was an African animal.
I hope this will help in your comparison of a surgeon and an aeroplane.

I too would like to read your poem, and agree with fifi on your writing.