Your sober face doesn’t
fool me, having seen
your smirk, heard
your sass, you
and your suits, almost
dowdy but useful and with a twist
of chili red or lapis blue plus
ladylike scallops at the cuff. You don’t
fool me with your schoolmarm
guise.  Slightly showy, you dance
like a Sufi when you peel
your stockings. When no
one’s looking you hammer air
guitar to Metallica. O Angela, quantum
chemist, so many male,
idols in my wake; they, like walnuts,
have fallen on a soggy
lawn, while you, my chancellor, rise
like steam from beer
soup. Will we dance
deliriously in the valley
of plain women?  Wait
until midday when sunlight
salted with sparkling
dust brightens our ripened
skin?  When it warms
our forearms & floods our bright
gray eyes, will we plunge our practical
hands into oversized
handbags?  Grab our steel
framed shades and saunter straight
ahead, low-heels clicking?