Professor Orangutan
had us over,
gave us beer
(to my mother’s horror),
showed us he’d shaved
a bald swath across his belly,
took Christine and I
for a ride in his new Camaro,
cleaned up after Jodi
when she threw up,
cleaned up after Jodi and John
when they used his bed,
had us back over
twice more before
the end of the semester.
Today I could wonder
what he was doing
with his freshman class,
with his divorce,
with his middle-aged
peaks and summits,
with his explication of Whitman:
“Eat! Fuck! Blow farts!”
Still, I trust Professor Orangutan
because he gave me
the seminal
book by Gorilla Chimpskaya,
which turned me onto poetry
for a lifetime of notebooks,
ink stains on my fingers,
and utter transport,
while sitting on the floor
eyes rolled up in my head,
understanding
(though I never did myself)
why you might
shave a bald swath
across your belly.
