The Professor Cries
by Ruth Stone
This is the end of March.
The tax collector
wants me to cut my wrists.
The roach inspector
drives up in a truck.
The snow sits like dough
turning sour. Every hour
love’s bones grow lighter.
This is what comes
of having no pity.
Time used me.
Death used me.
I live in Johnson City.
“The Professor Cries” is the first poem of Ruth Stone’s National Book Award-winning collection In the Next Galaxy. She taught for many years in the English Department at Binghamton University. She did live in Johnson City.
Submitted by: David Chirico
Tags: The Monday Poem
