was a
ruined white flower.
she
had to
be 80 or more,
but
she stood there,
in the back of the room,
while i
read my poems
to a couple of dozen students
who only
looked tired and bored.
i wasn’t into it
and neither were they,
and all i could see was this mop
of
stringy
grey hair
and
a face that
kept urging me on.
