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Retort in the Saddle of Saturn’s Elbow

Ah yes—emotion,

that peculiar bridle tugged

by ivory-cloaked meteorologists

on sabbatical from chronology,

their chariots bartering syllabi for sunbeams.

I too have dreamt of post-grad centaurs

galloping across lecture halls of cloud,

mumbling Heraclitus between hiccups of lightning.

And who are we but roaming vowels in the margins,

hitching rides on overcaffeinated professors

mistaking the moon for a whiteboard?

Thus I whisper to Endymion, 

“Hold my thesis, love— 

I’m mid-giddy-up toward the stars’ next office hours.”

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