Ode to a Professor of Electrical Engineering

He's probably from outer space.
I sit, gnawing my fingernails into barren moons.
I jump as I see a small antenna begin to poke through
the stiff, pale blue collar of his shirt.
I turn around frantically,
hoping that the rest of the class
sees what I see. But no.
They lounge, tongues protruding blankly from
mouths, eyes dully fixed on the ceiling.
I look back. A warm green glow begins to surround his head.
I sigh and return to my notes.

by Becky Jamieson
poet laureate of the Willy Street Fair.