How to Make An English Professor Cuss

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment 
I jumped in to help 
on our college Facebook 
page. A mother posted 
concern about her daughters, 

two of them, who don’t
like online learning,
though pandemic
college can’t be fully

face-to-face, not just
yet, and I thought I 
typed “daughters,”
but I typed “daughter,”

and some man jumped
on the thread and said,
“Daughter are? And you’re 
an English professor?

I’m not surprised.”  And
all 23 years of my career
reared up behind me 
and begged to be allowed

to respond.  They wanted
to say, “You want to go
head-to-head on grammar,
fuckbucket?  Because I’m 

down for that, you inbred
single-celled shitgibbon.”
But I was on the college
page, so I took a couple

of deep breaths and wrote,
“Thanks for the catch!” (Note
the exclamation point. It makes 
it friendlier. It’s how women

are socialized to appear
less aggressive. I would
love to see a study that
compares exclamation

point usage between women
and men, though I don’t 
really need official data.)
As I breathed through my

response, I thought 
about how common
snark has become, toxic
thrusts and parries, and

how people will throw
schoolyard taunts at
others without any 
knowledge of who

they really are.  And
I wondered how this
man would feel if I 
questioned him in a

snide manner about his
life’s work. And then I
wondered if I had ever done
just that to someone. It’s 

possible, though I don’t
recall details. So I looked
in the mirror and let that 
man go. 


© 2020 Deb Moore, All Rights Reserved

Mine To Do

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment 
I return to the garden 
after a season
of supporting
those who must

matter most right 
now. Last week, I felt 
like Atlas, not quite 
holding the entire 

world on my back,
but convinced it
would crash down
around me if I

didn’t keep straining
and pushing and 
advocating change.
It has been necessary,

exhausting work, but I
turn back now to the 
business of mowing
and weeding and filling

bird feeders.  By day’s
end, I will be coated
with sweat.  Bits of grass,
twigs, dirt, bugs 

stamped on my skin, 
joiners to the cause.   
And I will stink.
I will stop because 

the sun is fading or 
because I am hungry or
tired, but not because
the job is done.

Tomorrow there will 
be more necessary, 
exhausting work that 
is mine to do.  


© 2020 Deb Moore, All Rights Reserved

Maker’s Mark

~ Deb ~ 2 Comments 
The finish of my
father’s desk seems
old, perhaps original,
but some brush marks

hint at an ancient 
attempt to make things
new. I search in 
and out, up and down 

for a maker’s mark
or other origin clue,
but only find my father’s
mark. I had to open 

the lap drawer, get on
my back on the floor,
under the desk like
a history mechanic,

to see it.  
          Property of 
          David W. Moore
                    Purchased for $7.00
          Metropolis, Ill.
          Oct. 1962

in permanent
marker.  Already old 
when he got it at 
that flea market or

yard sale before I was
born. And now I have 
it, seven years after 
he left the earth,

and I run my hands
over the finish and 
read his handwriting
again from the iPhone

picture, and I remember
the he who would mark
his things and the
way he marked me,

and I sit here trying 
to shrug him off enough
to begin a story about
him. 



© 2020 Deb Moore, All Rights Reserved

Serve and Protect

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment 
Before I could 
hold seven numbers 
in my brain,
I was told to look 

for a policeman
(in those days, we called 
them all policemen) if
ever I was lost and 

one would help me.
Kind men in blue cotton
shirts and pants, 
polished shoes,

soft-soled for comfort, 
service cap with shiny
black bill below a gold
badge. These were the

ones with white gloves
who could direct 
traffic with a brightly 
whistled hand ballet.

Most seemed skinny,
lanky like my cousin
Bobby, and the thick black
belt’s first job was to

hold up pants, not 
so much to house
the implements of 
immobilization and

constraint, the cuffs,
gun, taser, pepper
spray hiding under
the bottom of a 

military vest,
military helmet
on his head, plastic
face shield.  All of which

just jumped from the
back of a tank like
landing at Normandy,
except it was the 

corner of 8th and Main
right in front of Scooter’s
Bar & Grille, and none
of the black folks 

in the crowd are 
surprised because they
never heard he might
help them get home.

© 2020 Deb Moore, All Rights Reserved