Tonight's Poet Corner: The Proctor
The Proctor by Belinda Roddie Everyone please sit at your assigned guillotines, eat your number two pencils so you can taste graphite on your tongues instead of adolescent despair, and turn to page six of your test book. There, you will read so many numbers that they'll creep like parasites up both nostrils and make you sneeze out random equations and formulas that all lead up to the same non-answer. You have sixty-five minutes to read your false gospels. You have thirty-five minutes to spell out your own epitaph. You have twenty-five minutes to understand the world, but if you run out of time, you're forced to move on. Another fifty minutes? Inscription on your grave needs revising. Use your fingernails to engrave your last hurrah in particleboard. I am here for you. Always. But I can't answer questions while the exam is in session. Just keep your head down, ignore Dalí's sneering complexion in the melting clock, and pray that your essay w