My creative writing teacher told me
there are several titles to poems
that will never be published.
She put them on the board
and dared us to even try.
She said she had spent half of her life
submitting “The Drunken Pharaohs
Walk Out of Disney’s Tomorrowland”
and that she has almost broken her spine
rewriting “It’s Against the Law
to Jump Rope with Breasts.”
She keeps going on like this,
a whole long list of eighteen different titles,
which isn’t really that long, but we’re in the middle
of church and the pastor is waiting for the police
to arrive so that we can all go to the zoo
and bury the dead rabbits from all of those pregnancy tests
form the past, the whole sad history of history.