I NEVER READ WUTHERING HEIGHTS
Life’s too short to read Victorian novels,
To talk shop in dive bars on Princess,
Or Cass, Electric Ave, Bloor, and Broadway.
Complaining about young students,
who can’t explain
Foucault, Heidegger, Arendt,
Or poems about cock rings.
Xanax nightmares in debt-ventilated apartments,
Amazon book orders for twenty dollar paperbacks,
Stacked higher than Tenured ambitions.
But I never read Wuthering Heights,
Even though Hemingway told me to,
Because you liked getting straight As.
Being told you were right,
So those cats in the campus bar would retweet you,
Want to fuck you.