And "Tenured" was Dropped from the Dictionary
by Michael Wells
The longitude was laughing
at the latitude that was fat
and circled completely around
the globe.
Pinpoints on a pincushion
were markers that offered
to lead us back to where
we started.
Place is one of those obtuse
things like time, which get
in the way of everything
about life.
I fancy the day that I can
twirl and instantly transport
myself anywhere.
Place and time would mean
nothing any longer. It is
coming, I know.
Academia is on the cusp of
replacing everyone with
adjuncts.
Students are refusing to
come to class in favor
of sitting half-dressed on
Zoom.
Do not think this is some
kind of revival. Divinity
is only found in certain
universities.
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This is an unpublished poem that I’m rather fond of because I recall having a lot of fun with it and was in a playful mood as you might guess by the tone. It has a bit of everything that was going on in my head when it was written. The whole time and space thing. The earth as a pin cushion. A little poke at academia—tenured and adjuncts. Blacklisting. But the overwhelming support of those who clearly got the message (and the joke) was all the more satisfying.
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MICHAEL WELLS calls Kansas City home but claims the San Francisco Giants as his baseball team. He is an alumnus of the Writer to Writer program. His genre is primarily poetry. He likes his wine white and his coffee black. michaelwells.ink