(9.14) For Sister Nancy
Sister Nancy was dieing impatiently.
Her books were donated to the University in June,
where she taught Chaucer and Dante most years.
The remaining twenty, Shakespeare.
Rugs, paperweights and winter coats, into boxes for Goodwill.
Her office, locked, temporarily.
How strange we waited for death that summer.
Watered her roses, let petals fall.
Watched them sweep across smoldering pavement,
in quiet droves towards sidewalk corners,
Before her first frost, I fled the transient city.
We are not yet masterpieces.
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