A Poet, First and Foremost
She always kept the other people waiting,
Making her entrance at the last moment,
If at all. She made arriving late seem to be
The only natural and sensible thing to do.
All eyes were on her as she entered the hall
And took off her coat and shoes. We stopped
Talking, or continued in hushed voices.
We wanted to see what she was wearing
And what she had brought to read.
She was a poet, first and foremost,
Which we all respected and admired.
We didn’t mind waiting, not really.
All we hoped was that she would share
A poem or two with us, and not keep
Everything so secret. She had promised
To contribute something to an anthology
We were working on, but that was beginning
To look more and more unlikely. Her excuse,
As always, was that she was not ready.
After many years we had our doubts
That she would ever be ready. What a pity!