The Playwright drives
a dark blue Mazda mini-van,
plenty of room in the back
for all those characters who follow her,
those early women flyers
knocking on the windows,
about to burst into the higher air.
Director of the Writing Center
rides her 1980’s bicycle, a white Mesa Runner
wedding present from her husband,
short blue coat, a sail behind her, blond hair
streaming out, smooth and shining
like her sentences.
The old Linguist sees all the Stop signs
in Thai and Japanese, in Old English,
translates billboards along his route to himself,
drives a Cooper, yellow and black
The college Tech Guru drives an old brown Dodge,
its back seat filled with yarn for her knitting.
She finds lost documents; deleted essays resuscitate;
lost documents come home; beneath her magic fingers
what is snarled winds up compliant.
She doesn’t berate or laugh or even snicker
at their myriad genius mistakes.