Dr. Bird's Advice for Sad Poets by Evan Roskos

pressure to live without a dad, I think.” He folds a couple of flyers up, tosses them into the recycling box from where he sits, and then crosses his arms. “It’s pressure to live in a broken family of any kind.”
    “I don’t think he thinks his family is broken. He’s got his sisters and his mother.” The truth is, I’ve never thought about this. My father makes a good point. “I think people adjust, you know? I think, with my broken arm, I don’t have to adjust because my arm will get better, but if my arm had been removed, I would adjust.”
    “You’d miss your arm. Just like Derek misses his dad.”
    I wonder about this whole conversation. What’s my father trying to do, make me feel superior for having a dad? Or make me feel crappy about not thinking about Derek? Is this about Jorie? Either way, my father’s certainty about Derek’s emotional state irritates me. He’s my friend. If anyone gets to say how Derek feels about things, it’s me.
    Thank goodness for doorbells and pizza delivery and my father’s inability to carry on a significant conversation when food enters the room, because I might’ve said I am a little jealous of Derek’s father-free life.

15.
    WHITMAN PASSED OFF LISTS of things as poetry. It makes for a tedious read sometimes, but I think I know why he did it: it totally shuts down the mind. Thus, I spend all morning cataloging things in classrooms and hallways. My anxieties take a back seat to unfettered words—no sentences, no strings of repetitive phrases. No worries about what I said and how I said it. Just
things.
    Many of the things he wrote about don’t exist anymore. Well, wagon wheels and blacksmith hammers, sure—somewhere those things are still in use. But he talks about stuff that is just foreign. I mean, what’s a “jour printer”? What are “the frisket and tympan”? And what the hell are “the etui of oculist’s or aurist’s instruments”?
    So I look at stuff and consider whether it will become extinct in a hundred years. I even take some covert photos. Maybe I could write a poem about objects that will be extincted by technology:
     
    Chalk
.
    Chalk dust.
    The black blackboard.
    The curly wire ofthe notebooks,
    the scraggily edge ofnotebook pages,
    the little bits of paper that used to hold the paper in
    the notebook.
    Notebooks.
    The ink pen,
    the gel pen.
    Mr. Hobbelstein’s aviator sunglasses.
    Mr. Hobbelstein.
     
    I’m not sure if Beth will publish this, but it’s a start. Pictures and poems. It would take up all sorts of space in the literary journal. Mr. Hobbelstein might be annoyed. But I can call the poem “Gone in 2112.” If he thinks he’ll still be here, then it’s his problem.
    My cell phone vibrates. I check it covertly, fearing the wrath of Mr. Hobbelstein, who believes cell phones are the worst invention since television. I have a text messagewith a picture of where a tree limb meets the trunk.
    I text back:
     
    I swear I see now that every thing
    has an eternal soul!
    The trees have, rooted in the
    ground . . . . The weeds of the sea
    have . . . . the animals.
    I like this shot. Send me more!
     
    She replies:
     
    Last days with my phone.
    Can't afford it. Enjoy!
     
    As I look away from the photo and out the classroom door, I see the person who might be able to confirm why Jorie freaked out and got expelled: Mrs. Yao.
    I ask for the bathroom pass and follow her, trying to glean her mood by the way she walks the halls. I’m not sure if she is displaying normal behavior, but she doesn’t look anyone in the eye. Some of my teachers go out of their way to be friendly. Mrs. Yao is trying to stay invisible. I always notice weird things about teachers. I catch some of my male teachers looking at the girls. I catch teachers yawning. I overhear complaints. I notice when their deodorant fails. I can remember keeping track of my seventh grade teacher’s eye blinks.
    Mrs. Yao doesn’t display any strange traits, but she does