“thus, art is subjective, as human beings
are not inherently objective creatures…”
the instructor says, and I nod,
drawing a caricature of her
in my notebook alongside
scribbles about the Willow Tea Room
and twentieth century Scottish architecture.
I pull the eraser out
of my mechanical pencil,
roll it between my fingertips,
feel the rubber heat up.
It is active, warm, useful—
everything that I am currently not.
I want to rub it on my skin,
obliterate myself from the day.
Instead, I erase the crude drawing,
replace it with notes on Neuschwanstein castle
and daydream of throwing myself from a turret.
Christopher Chaffin’s poems have appeared in print journals and online anthologies. Chris enjoys reading written work of varied genres and loves workshopping his own ideas with other writers. He is too clumsy to be a dancer, so he aspires to be a poet instead.