her poetry reading

her blue stone
poetry, wrapped in a hard
book. signed inside

to me,

sits worn in my hands.
she loved to read from it 

her favorite poems.
i'm eighty-six she told

me one night 

after a reading
in a quiet library room.
a coffee pot

on a table with
a paper plate of cookies

beside it.

there was a broken clock

on the far wall.

six people showed, all
of whom she knew

by name.
it didn't matter.
she read as if there were
a hundred people listening.
she read with the same
wonder and joy

as the first time,

hardly needing to look

at the words anymore.