by James Mulhern

Colleagues ask for my criteria grading English papers.
Family asks me meanings of mystifying words.
Students praise my speaking skills and believe that I am smart.
My erudition impresses them, before they walk away.

I spend nights scouring Shakespeare or wading the web,
lauding lines of literature and commending clever craft,
focused and saddened, longing to be liked—
significant to someone, distinctive as a Dickinson dash.

Mostly, I feel small and empty—a tiny font,
the space beyond the colon of an abandoned thought,
a letter lacking closure or a line.
Stranded and incomplete—preceding naught.

*originally appeared in Impspired Magazine