For D.B.
Join us! Why not? Frail lost friends might appear—
Emeriti are (though often hoary)
Not yet quite dead. And this chipped, gray, bleary
Flesh can rise up still, still yearn for glory!
But few stopped by—worse, even faculty
In short supply. Young lecturers evoke
The passion (ah youth), energy, occult
Spirit—they warm the room—challenge, provoke!
Happily, D.B. was there—fifty-one,
Still firm, radiant, though slightly swollen—
(Bruised, doubtless, both by aimed and unaimed blows:
Lilting life)—charm, aura, not yet stolen!
Temerity, age-ripened, prompted me:
I announced to her (distinguished poet!)
That I, too, write poems—she smiled, “Let me see
Some.” Dammit! Now I’m done for—risked my butt!
Oh well, let them serve—these thin awkward poems—
Requiem for drowned ego, powdered bones.
(12/15/08)