Freshman Lit & Comp

For Janet Burroway

Wednesday evenings rooted to his place

-back row, nearest the door-

he had that plodding obstinance

of dullness laced with purpose.

Past twenty-five, pimpled and flabby,

bursting out of himself

at every tuck and button.

Arriving and leaving alone.

Never an answer, never a question,

hauling himself toward me every week

from the wood-lathe of his job

in a low grade furniture shop,

ready for commas, Milton, paragraphs, Donne.

Every other week, another essay

into listlessness and error,

as if the writing meant no more

than the grease he carried on his cuffs.

The Iliad provided the finish.

Six years later, I still can paint

the slants and tones of sunlight

mapped across my desk, or sing

the fossils deep below me

in those moments when I read

his final thesis of our course:

That the truest choice by Homer

was the crippling of Hephaestus,

for only the damaged could understand

the shield scrolled with gentle iron lace,

the aura that holds around the perfect forging.