Contemplating

the hallowed buildings

of Harvard waiting for the reading

to start, not looking

like a student nor

a faculty member either,

but trying to fit in when suddenly

it begins to rain.

I try this door then that (like a rat

in a maze) but I don't have a key;

cannot get into Harvard out

of the pouring rain

without a key.

Drenched, I have

a vision of Dad dead now all these

years, perking his head up

from under the hood

of his broken old '56 Buick, staring

at me, saying finally,

the cigarette dangling from

the corner of his mouth --

Serves you right

for thinking you could hang round

a place like Harvard.