By Louise Cole

He notices her hair first. Well, you would,
that crazy dye bursting through the roots,
a frizz grimly waiting for winter.

Listen to her going on about literature,
and that damned book. It's where she
got her name, and why she races round campus

with an oil can and a dirty mouth.
From his suburban hell he finds her real,
and startling. His Galatea, shaped from

raw student to accomplished woman.
The stained paperback she left on the desk,
and too many names he can't remember.


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