There are people in this room

that don’t deserve to be here.

Exhibit A’s intimate circle

gathers ‘round the VIP computers

designated for those

who manage,

for lack of any other skill,

to commence their daily whispering war.

No one bothers to mention

how easily the room echoes

unless I am the speaker.

Exhibit A slides down from her lofty throne of a broken table

and strides to our corner as an angel pats her on the back

for committing the holy deed

of speaking to those who do not own spirit wear

and attend football games.

She glares at me disdainfully

and forces a smile.

My only shortcoming

is loving what I do.

If I did much other than write

I would be content to share her mother’s chocolate cake

and tell her just how much talent,

how much wit,

how much sarcasm

she’s scrounged from all 23 of her IQ points.

I’ve written for a lifetime.

My overseer has taken snapshots for her mommy

to post on her refrigerator

beneath her “A” in Home Economics

and the coloring book page

she scribbled in

at the tender age of five.

She smiles distantly and regretfully informs me

that she had to change a few things

about my writing.

“Just work with me here.”

She, naturally, has no problem

with any work of art I could produce.

But the parents,

the administrators,

the overpaid snobs,

the hypocrites,

what of them?

I’ve told these people numerous times,

“I don’t write to paint over the dull spots

and make believe that nothing gray ever happens in

this world.”

She flips her hair and says,

“That’s awfully judgmental of you.”