The Masters of rhythm,
the graduates of verse,
each Thursday they lose her
with in-jokes and worse.

Some joke through their stanzas,
some tell of their trips;
she can’t help but ponder
what passes their lips.

Yet one day she falters
and sleeps through the night;
she wakes well past midnight
but wants to make right.

She misses a reading
of poetry and rhyme,
and seeks from her classmate
the meanings, sublime.

“I don’t know;
It’s hard to put into words.”

“Too much Chex,
not enough mix –
that’s your problem.”

“Okay, I guess it isn’t
hard to put into metaphor –
just words.