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.