Richard's Poem

         “Okay, I don’t get it.”
         “What do you mean?”
         “I don’t get it,” I repeated, “that’s what I mean.”
         Richard sighed, his outstretched hand dropping to his side, “are you really that dense?”
         “You’ve just given me a poem about… Well, I don’t know what it’s about but it’s pretty stupid.” I looked down at the notebook paper with five lines of the worst poetry Richard ever wrote scribbled in tragically permanent marker.
         Richard snatched it out of my hand, “how can you not get this?”
         I shrugged, “it just doesn’t make any sense.”
         “It’s not supposed to be literal!”
         “But what are the metaphors implying? I just don’t see what you’re trying to do with it.” I waved my hand at the paper, exasperated, “I mean, monkeys holding crosses? Why the hell would monkeys hold crosses?”
         “It’s a monkey and he’s carrying a cross,” Richard plead.
         “Oh- because that makes so much more sense, now. No, wait, it doesn’t.”
         “Whatever, you wouldn’t know a good metaphor if it trampled you like a heard of buffalo.”
         I sneered and waved my hand dismissively, “do what you want- you’re not going to win any contests with a poem like that.” I turned my back to him quickly, making my escape down the dormitory hall, silently cursing myself for not thinking of such an adept metaphor before my own roommate did.