But　Colm　Doyle；　the　legendary　Irish　writer；　was　the　instructor。　Colm　wrote　angry；　honest　poems　about　love。　After　his　fourth　divorce；　he’d　written　a　poem　called　“Hand　on　the　Frying　Pan；”　and　Dan　had　memorized　every　line。　Besides；　he’d　hoped　he　could　benefit　from　taking　a　class　on　passion　when　he　wasn’t　in　love。　After　all；　back　in　high　school；　he’d　written　his　best　poem；　“Sluts；”　after　he’d　broken　up　with　Vanessa　the　first　time。　That　had　been　published　in　The　New　Yorker。

It　was　also　submitted　not　by　the　writer　but　by　its　unjealous　subject。

But　now；　he　couldn’t　write　anything。　It　wasn’t　like　he　hadn’t　tried；　over　and　over；　for　the　last　year。　It　was　just　always　the　same：　He’d　loved　Vanessa；　Vanessa　had　cheated　on　him；　he　hated　his　life；　and　he　wanted　to　move　on　but　for　some　reason　couldn’t。　He　was　angry　at　her　and　missed　her　and　hated　the　fact　that　he’d　seen　a　photo　of　her　and　that　Hollis　guy　on　one　of　the　party　pages　in　New　York　magazine；　looking　so　happy　together。　He　wished　that　he’d　never　met　Vanessa；　so　he　wouldn’t　have　to　feel　this　way。

Sounds　like　someone　skipped　the　better　to　have　loved　and　lost　lesson。

Dan　lay　down　on　his　bed　and　pulled　the　flannel　sheets　over　his　head。　All　he　wanted　to　do　was　fall　asleep　so　he　didn’t　have　to　think；　but　unfortunately　he’d　had　fourteen　cups　of　black　coffee　today　and　his　hands　were　vibrating。　He　just　couldn’t　fucking　write　the　poem。　And　he’d　tried。　So　far；　pages　and　pages　were　scattered　across　the　room　and　on　his　bed。　The　zebra　and　turtle　poem　had　actually　been　one　of　his　better　efforts。　At　one　point；　he’d　thought　he　was　onto　something；　but　then　realized　he　was　just　transcribing　an　Indigo　Girls　song　playing　on　the　radio　his　father　had　left　on　in　the　kitchen。

“Daniel？”　Rufus　appeared　in　the　doorway。