The Empty Page
The Empty Page
It sat there at my student desk
In wait of task to tend.
Write a poem, the teacher urged,
Your thoughts to paper, penned.
Intently, I perused the sheet,
Pale white and yet unmarked.
It lay there teasing my first move,
“Don’t leave me unremarked.”
This paper, college ruled and prim,
Well-bleached and full of aughts,
Stared blankly back at me to help,
With all my labored thoughts.
I searched the room for any clues
Of how I was to learn.
The clock was running faster now,
No time to wait and yearn.
I sat there squeamish and unnerved,
Too weak to brandish pen.
It was my first time close to death,
Too late for where and when.
Surely, all the class can see
My torment and refrain.
I’d rather have a spelling bee.
I’m circling ‘round the drain.
In looking back these many years,
My eyes were outward bent.
The chalkboard hung erased to black.
My mind, abridged, was spent.
But time has made its mark on me,
Halfway granting one old wish -
To find that poem in myself,
And give to Mr. Nish.
Robert Farrell Waltrip
Copyright ©
Robert Waltrip
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