“Think only to your educators
for your understanding of
yourself.” —- Fifth grade,
dowdy, matronly, female
of my dreams
(Gertrude Stein-ian?)
who made me
concentrate so she
could educate me —
how I feared, thee.
Freshman in college,
short, fat, lisping, stutter-
ing, Shakespearian,
Falstaffian professor
who made me
believe in me.
Senior year,
Hemingway wannabe?
No, just the beard
and love of literature
(who on a beautiful spring day
said to the class, “Go out and play,
er, sit  on a stump in the woods
and take it all in.”)
who thought my writing
oh, so mature
for my age.
Who am I to demure
from such affirmation
so pure?
It didn’t
come from me,
but from thee,
all three —
now and forever
with me.