SOMETHING FOR MABELLE

I tip-toed in and hoped no one would see, 
clutching papers for anonymity.
My eyes were big, my hands completely cold
but I sat down pretending to be bold.

I shuddered when I found each read in turn
and blanched at criticism each would earn.
Too soon the finger pointed straight at me.
I glanced around but saw no way to flee.

My heart, if not my voice was badly shaking
at all the noise my poetry was making,
rattling the windows, near to breaking
and making plain what courage this was taking.

I finished, gasping, and looked up to find
a face across the table, softly lined - 
a lived-in face, the Dame May Whitty kind,
with happy eyes that tell what's on her mind.

She asked politely if she could be blunt.
I could do nothing else but sit and grunt.
She picked apart my poem bit by bit -
with humor, with kindness and with wit.

"A poet must revise a lot, you see."
A poet!  Did that name refer to me?
I trembled and I think I rocked the boat.
I was afraid to fall.  I couldn't float.

"Now you go home and work on this," she said,
and splash, I tumbled, leading with my head.
She thinks I am a writer!  Glory be!
Perhaps I am - perhaps that's what I'll be.

			Lucille Murphy