A Poet, First and Foremost (Written August 31)

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!

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