who wants to read their poems?

sometimes she'd forget
to put her
purse down, or take off her coat.
she'd hold her car keys
in one hand and a piece of
white chalk in the other.
she'd teach poetry
all night in front of the class
just like that.
on and on she'd go about
Sylvia plath
and anne sexton. you have
to read phillip larkin, she
said.
he's wonderful.
and mark strand.
who wants to read what they
have?
did anyone write this week?
are we not poets
my dears?
she'd rattle her keys
in the air,
anyone?