Professor’s Revision

Lines through words on paper
scream in agony.
It is the final pen stroke of
my bitter enemy.

She sits behind that wood-stained desk,
protected by its weight,
the barrier between I and her,
the Devil’s precious gate.

My perfect paper scattered now
in fragments on the page,
sections writ in fervor stroke
now fuel upon my rage.

To her I say my final words,
an eloquence of hate,
a simple sentence something like:
“Tuesday, then, at Eight?”

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