Logorrhea

Mouth agog, tongue flailing,
I fling my monologues—
Orphaned and homeless—
Into the tattered atmosphere.

My students mostly stare,
Or text, or roll their eyes,
Humor me with half-smiles,
Pity of the living for the dead.

Truth: I really am a bore.
I bore no one more than myself.
And so I talk, and lecture,
And pontificate, and preach.

Often I envy the mute.
I wish I were Meher Baba,
Silent for 44 years.
Maybe then they would listen.

Once I was considered shy,
Quiet, a reclusive loner.
I want to find that past self,
Ask him to show me how

To live by pointing,
Gestures in the air,
A stick drawing in the dirt.