nice try

your poetry
instructor
from years ago.
she must be ninety
now.
wild haired
and beautiful
in her unkempt
clothes.
always with a handbag
on her shoulder
as she stood
in front of the class
and read
her own poems.
how she loved
the written word.
the turned
phrase, or rhyme.
how you differed
on delivery, you
telling stories
with a sprinkling
of hot pepper
and her sticking
to rosemary
and thyme.
you still hold
her critiques
dearly. your poems
folded neatly over
her words,
nice try.