Before my Tongue has Gleaned My Teeming Brain

I’m twice as old as Keats was when he died,
and I am terrified that I won’t live…
…to say my peace, or say my piece – which one?
It is disgraceful, but I am not sure.
I still tell innocents that poetry
is what defines me, but I teach high school.
Furthermore, when I say that I teach,
I mean that I perform a dance as stale
and self-important as a dance can be
in front of boys and girls who have no choice
but to endure it. Go, this afternoon,
of half a dozen years from now, and ask
the brightest of them if they learned a thing
from me, and they will say, ” He was all right,
but I can’t think of anything right now.”

I’m twice as old as Keats was when he died,
and I have made a thousand master plans
to glean my teeming brain before it stops.
Some involve alarm clocks, some require
a lot of travel and some solitude,
but none involve remaining at my desk
for more than fifteen minutes at a time.
Once I even bought a tape recorder,
and planned to sneak up while I was myself –
but I was too self-conscious to record
my stream of consciousness. I’m just afraid
that my poor words will never measure up
to fourteen lines from young and doomed John Keats –
So no one leaves my tutelage without
When I Have Fears That I May Cease to Be.