Writer-in-Residence

He wears his black beret tilted at a jaunty angle
(So the word is whispered among awe-struck freshmen
Aware of his reputation) in homage to Joyce's genius
And his defiance of staid beef and potatoes morality.
Like Joyce, he dines on the ambrosia of literature.
His beard is scissor-trimmed perfect every morning,
Shaped to cultivate a resemblance to Hemingway.
His attire, a heavy woolen sweater, is just casual enough
To suggest an Artist's contempt for the whims of fashion,
And self-absorption that he hopes they'll mistake for genius.

He sits in the faculty lounge stroking his meerschaum pipe
As though poised on the brink of uttering some profiundity
That can compress all the secrets of the universe
Into a concise, pithy microchip of an utterance
As inspired as the poetry that he wrote twenty years ago.
Now he pays lip service to all the popular causes
And publishes learned monographs on obscure authors
Whose work rarely merits his efforts to resurrect them.
He's up for election to become the head of the department.

He's become adept at quashing the enthusiasm
Of naive and over-fervant literature students
With an intimidating arch of an eyebrow,
Or a cruel, cutting sardonic comment
That springs from the academic veldt to attack students
Who dare overstep their place in the college caste system
To extoll the virtues of some high school favorite.

"Indeed.  You're still reading him...I see..."

"I really don't think that her output addresses issues
That are of any concern to today's enlightened readers."

"Hmmm....He's popular enough.  I guess..."

Then he eases back into the plushness of his chair
Behind a low-hanging fog of Borkun-Riff tobacco smoke,
Studying the students through his serpent slits of eyes.
Study him though.  If you watch him long enough
You'll catch him glancing furtively about the room,
Desperately hoping that no one else will ever discern
That his reputation is nothing now but an empty shell
From which that mollusk, Genius, has fled long ago.