Young wrinkled poet. Not wearing make-up.

 

An auditorium mostly used 
For Seniors, cribbage, bumper pool 
Guitar lessons, book club, yoga. 
Well sort of. 
But Thursday nights at eight. 
Talent, readings of all sorts. 
Song. Strumming.
Even a dodgy female ventriloquist. 

Puffy Afghan on her knee.

And a terrier who does tricks 
Well, more than half the time. 
And then Daphne. 
Pigtails and no make-up. 
Bag dress, shift, potato sack? 
Mustard leggings. 
And Chuck Taylor All Star 
Sneakers. 
Reading next with a sultry voice 
That did not match the rest. 
Poems with fire. 

A Bully 
From junior high 
A smirk and fast hands. 
A black eye if you falter. 


A pond quivering 
Before nightfall, fireflies 
A-dance in tribute to 
Day’s death. 
And night hawk’s swoosh. 


The next, a short trip to 
The altar. 
Praying so unfamiliar 
But honest, transparent, broken 
Needing help, needing God. 
(As if she were describing herself. 
Well guess what.) 

She was totally let in 
Yucky exterior coating. 
Totally flummoxed by 
The Voice, the conjured mood. 
The Gioconda lips. 
The slight hips. 
Poetry mistress on her way. 
With convincing words painted.

That most might appreciate.