Challenging Poetry

purple ink

my peeve is a tiny,
quiet thing, until a paper
slips, mistaking loose for lose
or they’re for there for their
or its for it’s—axe for ask
or another of the tiny careless errors
that set it off to yipping,
like a toy poodle
guarding its home from postal
workers, thunder, and people
passing by, on the other side
of the street.

I keep it healthy, my peeve,
on a steady diet of indignation
and sarcasm, the rolling of the eyes
and the comments
shared with other student teachers
who feed it treats with their
commiserations.

and when I send back the papers,
cloaked in purple ink
and stand before the class,
explaining (yet again) the differences—
meeting the eyes of the worst
offenders, but not lingering—
my peeve curls up against
my heart, and purrs.

I kind of ran with the idea of pets today. That's where I started, at least.