(Written as an exercise for the Poetry in America class)

It was in the 1980s and I was living in New York City. I had moved there, after dropping out of college, to be a poet and was supporting myself writing computer programs. Through a local church, I found a group of Christian artists struggling to get by in the great big city. They gathered for various events, and I, being one of the furthest from making a living at my art, stayed in the shadows.

At one event, a woman read Elsa Wertman from Spoon River Anthology.

But—at political rallies when sitters-by thought I was crying
At the eloquence of Hamilton Greene—
That was not it.
No! I wanted to say:
That’s my son! That’s my son!

That woman now performs from a pulpit instead of from a proscenium. She posts on Facebook about her son’s great new job. He didn’t become a member of Congress, like Hamilton Greene did.

I wonder what it would have been like, if my friend had led a faith study group for Elsa Wertman, Aner Clute, Mrs. Kessler and some of the other women in Spoon River. Did Mrs. Kessler ever wash clothes for Elsa Wertman or Aner Clute? What would she have said? Would let them know that everyone has things they try to hide, but that it all comes out in the wash? Would Elsa have broken down in tears and confessed her hurt, her longing? Would Aner Clute found the acceptance and love that always seemed to elude her?