"A Glimpse of E.E Cummings."
The reading was over, and he stood against the rear wall,
head up, keeping a smile, being talked to.
One more chore for the money, and he
could have been enjoying it for the challenge to the self.
His smile, protected.
A girl student spoke to his face.
He nodded, and in a moment, answered quietly and quickly
in a high pitched voice.
Was it this vocal weakness he meant to shield as the self
because it was so awkward in him?
He meant nothing more after that but to listen, to nod,
and smile at each body in turn taking a stand before him.
I hung about watching and studying
his face for the poems being written there at that moment
and found that weary but alert, aged, and loving defiance.