Some Wrinkled Kid Talking.

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.
Even a dodgy female ventriloquist.
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.