I Wrote about a child
so cut off from the world that the
television was her teacher.
A baby devoid of all
raised and cultured by
images and emotions
broadcast to a television set.
Only now the piece that wouldn’t work
is the way the television looked in my mind.
Boxy with two long antenna
sticking out at angles
it was firmly a product of the time.
And all I hear
is a teacher in a warm fall classroom
sitting in front of a gathering of students
chair turned backwards
reliving some Dead Poet’s moment
“Show, don’t tell; don’t you ever tell.”
“Discover your own voice.
Do not age your work.
Do not let it be broken down by labels
if you do
make damn sure
you have clearly labeled it