It was in the spring of '76, after mid-term for sure, with only about two weeks left until the end of the semester, when word came that the professor would not return for the remainder of the year. Illness. For the poetry writing class there would not be a substitute; we would teach ourselves. The curriculum was all write-'n-critique, and we were motivated enough to keep doing that with or sadly without our professor.
We hit upon the idea of composing a composite poem, one line written by each of the nine people in the class with the intention of sending it to the professor. The order of the lines would be determined by a random drawing and the title from a piece of scrap paper found in the classroom, the only contribution from someone outside the class and anonymous.
The poem follows.
Optional: if in the library - read a few Justice Reports
The years cluttered with tone-deaf critics
Left bleeding bare brown veins in the snow
Manifested patterns on glossed walls
And in my heart will rise up with the morning sun
Tarnished memories
Shadows that only my eyes can see
Whispers shadow the empty classroom
And I in brassiere spaghetti-dinnered them
There's nothing like tea and you in the morning