English Class Poem by Ian McArthur

(I had a great teacher, and my last years of English were fond ones. She was very fed up with the constraints of the old fashioned memorization and testing system, and I think I picked up on it as well at times.)

Sometimes English class is a sandwich.
Arrive, supplies on the cutting bored.
White bread, hollow by two.
Processed metaphors, two.
Without nutrient or rough, the crisp shred of persuasive lettuce.
A sauce spiral of textbook mustard imagery.
A four-some'd tomato... aren't those classmates cute?
Oh, and manners for the teacher, butter the bread.
That starts white and ends Blanc.

Bring it all together, cut it in half like
The grade you hoped to get.

Mostly disappointing, but at least you get something to eat.