poetry workshop

i think this poem
is unfinished, the man
in back of the room says.
he scratches his
beard along the collar
of his black turtleneck
sweater.
it's a missed
opportunity to be more
than what it is.
it's hurried, rushed.
as if no care was
taken to word choices
end rhymes and such.
but it's a very nice
try. he directs his
comments to the whole
room, but it's your poem,
and you twist the pencil
in your hand and for
one moment understand
what primeval rage is,
and you wonder how
accurately you could throw
your sharpened number two
pencil with a flick of
your hand into his forehed
but you don't. his poem
his next, and you will
crush it like a grape
in the palm of your hand.