constructing poetry

unpaid line editor

I don’t mind it,
most of the time.
when they ask me
if I would read,
proof,
turn their words
into polish—into
truths worthy of A’s
from their professors’ pens . . .
and then,
it’s half past midnight,
and someone’s at the door
with eight pages.
she needs ten.
page by page,
paragraph by paragraph,
sentence by sentence,
word by misspelled word,
we wrestle this crocodile essay—
tame it,
pray that it doesn’t
drag us down,
drown us in a sea
of false leads and incoherent ideas.
I type.
I’m faster, but I can’t
write it for her—it’s her grade,
her work,
her sense of spelling
that turns even easy words
into a red-lined mess
that only experience
and her help can clean.
it’s almost five
when we’re done—
ten pages, double spaced
full of her ideas,
her work,
my sweat,
my sleep—
my incipient migraine
as I calm my mind enough
to find my bed
just in time to get up again.

Prompt for: May 12, 2016 ▼

Subject or Theme: A time when you were made a fool of, taken for granted, used
Word(s) to Include: crocodile, false, truth (or any derivatives of these words)
Forbidden Word(s): hate, (or any derivatives, compound or hyphenations of these words)
Additional Parameters: 24 lines (at least)
Remember, do not use forbidden words ANYWHERE, including title or the brief description.