On My Education As A Poet: The Sound Of Language Poem by Glen Kappy

Her name I don't remember.
Our English teacher for a while
she was slim and tall
and blonde and freckled
and with features overall
that made my eighth grade self
inclined to pay attention.

And her way of speaking—
honey somewhat thickened
and with Southern flavor
flowing from her mouth—
a contrast to the words
that bumped against each other
in a crowded line—
our New York City speech.

And this one day I heard
each syllable savored slowly
as she spoke—'garbage'—
followed by her question—
'isn't that a beautiful word? '