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"A Glimpse of E.E Cummings."

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The reading was over, and he
stood against the rear wall,

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head up, keeping a
smile, being talked to.

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One more chore for
the money, and he

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could have been enjoying it
for the challenge to the self.

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His smile, protected.

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A girl student
spoke to his face.

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He nodded, and in a moment,
answered quietly and quickly

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in a high pitched voice.

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Was it this vocal weakness he
meant to shield as the self

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because it was so
awkward in him?

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He meant nothing more after
that but to listen, to nod,

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and smile at each body in turn
taking a stand before him.

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I hung about
watching and studying

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his face for the poems being
written there at that moment

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and found that weary but alert,
aged, and loving defiance.

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