Turned her house into a
drama; a frost of cobwebs, dust-dried books,
cracked glass on her certificates of merit,
from a hopeful past at college.
Her dire entreaties met with derisive laughter.
Sent home on Valium and milky cocoa, until
next term, which never came. Age was to blame,
they explained, politely.
The modern class is no place for a lady. No one
was ever inflamed by her approach to literature.
The Dickens she cherished; the timeless sonnets
in Shakespeare's hand left them uninspired.
Unable to rise above her quiet and subtle
passion, it was announced; medically retired.
©2008 Carol Rogers
Carol would love
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