For S.M.
Sarah’s her name. She comes in scuzzy clothes
Each Wednesday to our culture shack. Unbrushed
Copious dark hair rages. Apropos
I guess, for gaining would-be poets’ trust.
Not easy to run a workshop. Ego
Thickens the air. We lust, of course, for praise,
But fear dismemberment, while her unfazed
Mobile face, free of all artifice, glows.
I think the males (perhaps some females too)
Are plain in love with her. Gracious, she runs
This horde—her mellow voice, firm, musical;
Her notes—definitive—overarch, stun
Our restive group. We nod, wholly entranced,
Warmed, nourished by her bemused radiance.
(8/3/07)