What was it he said he would teach me?
Iconic tachometers? Ionic barometers?
Ironic pedometers? Ah! Now I remember!
He said that he would not teach me
Anything at all. And searching
among his archives, Leafing through his files,
he produced – with a flourish (flourishes are his forte)
– one of his more interesting lists
Then, waving it in my face, he asked if I would
indicate to him where I could see my name
amongst those of all the girls he had registered.
Had I any evidence of his acceptance?
Evidence? (one of his favourite words)
Reading through, I could find no proof at all,
not even my initials noted, or faintly jotted,
down in one of his narrow, foolskap margins,
so how could I expect to be included?
Slapping the paper triumphantly, he declared
that it was proof (another of his favourite words)
In-dis-put-able proof that I was definitely
not in their class