My Stab at Poetry

The Professor

I saw a man that I once knew
One hundred yards away
He raised one brow, he knew me too
But what were we to say?
He’d call me Miss, a fitting term
That fit most every guest
I’d call him none, a firm
Decision, lest
He crossed the room, a drink in hand
And sidled to my chair
And asked, in subtle reprimand
What I was doing there.
A lovely man, of ample brain,
But not a heart in mind.
A face, not bright, but simply plain
A judgment that was blind.
We’d talk of what I’d done to me
Since I had seen him last
I’d say that I and all could see
The welfare of the past
Had made him godly in the world
Of pocket pens and ties.
The hand of thought had gently curled
Around his learned eyes.
But then our talk would fall from this
As we spoke above the crowd
And he sidled to another Miss
As aimless as a cloud.