When the committee chairman
offered her tenure
in exchange for sex,
she slapped his ruddy cheek,
resigned, hit the streets,
and changed her name to Luna.
For years, with bags of crushed cans,
cardboard, and refuse
from dumpsters, she’s eked out
a bare-bones living.
The wheels of her cart,
like the screeches of mice,
electrify the night.
From memory, on full moons,
her doctorate in music
scrolled tight as a baton,
she navigates each nuance
of the score of Mahler’s “Ninth.”
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