"Class Full of Albatrosses"

Coleridge stares at my students

struggling to listen to his Rime,

face-down like the dead mariners

draped on the welcome wood of their desks,

rocked asleep by the soft tide of that ghostly music.

Coleridge sighs atop his cloudy perch

and falls asleep,

tired of zombies,

dreaming of eyes wide-open.