Whatever

Because he was an American. For this, Ben saw no problem. No problem at all. This was his classroom, his class. He sat at the front of the room. He held the cards. He ran the show. And for this reason, he took as he pleased.

Joe sat in the class and smarted off when he felt sufficiently motivated or offended. When the teacher got out of line, he tried to keep it in check. Mostly he let class lurch forward, stop, sputter and spiral into the ground. He just wanted warmth, which he found in gloves from the gas station on his block.

A deal, the only words for those gloves. Joe paraded them on the union steps. A dollar. A damned dollar. Red, bright red. With a solid knit pattern and black plastic grips. Mitten tops allowing fine motor control and warmth in the same fantastic garment.

Joe and Ben met in class, or battle. Whichever you tend to call it. A poem here, a statement there. Work shopping. A valuable tool, when the participants know how to use it. A hopeless waste of time in the hands of amateurs, as was the case today, and everyday of this class.

Ben stood at the head of the class. Flashing his rejection notices and telling the class what they already knew: there's no money in poetry. And you will be turned down. The class sat at half mast. When the question was posed, Ben sitting in front.
"What is poetry," the teacher asked. the eternal question every student dreads at mid semester.
"Diction and meter?"
"Rhyme and imagery?"
"Yes, and yet no." Ben sneered from his pulpit. "Is it anything more?" Does anyone with a brain stem care to answer?"
And this sufficiently offended and motivated Joe. He posed Ben's own question to him.
Silent for a moment, Ben spoke.
"The combination of all art forms. The use of painting and music and photography and language and acting. Mixed into one. The ultimate art form."
"But doesn't that work more with movies?" Joe said.