293/365 George

Fringed bald pate, Zeus-like and sandy,
suited to Latin prof in a women's
college: double-jointed splayed fingers
explained declensions over-and-over.

Shuffle-suited, crumb-bearded,
couldn't remember which Julie
was which even after two years.

Once I argued for a grade switch,
B+ to A-
you agreed:
logical to the end.

292/365 John B

Vietnam your fertile field, plowed for poems
with varied acclaim, recognized expertise

Read my tentative sophomore work, marveled that
one good poem could be among awful
ones: a student's plight you may've forgotten

Housesitter you once hired invited me over for
dinner: your rice-filled futon skinned my elbows

291/365 Jack

Left-center fielder who caught my
bobbled centerfield fly: you live that moment

more fully than any academic one we
may've shared (department meetings?)

"I still have the trophy we won," you always
say and I say, "Me, too!" too

English majors prouder of intramural softball
championship than articles, books, awards

290/365 Amy K

Abe's the third
after Olivia
Jack now ten,
shocking us
both. The ease
with which you navigate
profession and motherhood shows
calmly on your face, eyebrows no
longer arched with worry, forehead
less lined than a decade ago.
Congratulations on your success-and-
word-filled life, a model for any
Midwesterner.

289/365 Lillian

Southerner, finally back south, your tenure
up north left a lasting impression: serious
scholarship taking students seriously.

Second generation beginning to fill your
screen, grandkids and grad students moving
out into the wide world of words.

Steadily blond, consistently gracious,
persistently updating learning
about new technologies: you keep up.

288/365 Jeff S

Shortest boy in the neighborhood
you grew into nearly six feet of
bristle-haired coach, the gap between
your front teeth just proof of
enough humor for middle-schoolers.

Late night almost-dark, playing
Kick the Can, Capture the Flag
SPUD: all preparation for football games
and homecoming escorts in high school.

287/365 Mike R

Long-armed,
long-fingered
a basketball
in your
hands looked
natural, the
logical place
for orange-dimpled
leather to be.

Loping downcourt
shoulders up
chin in
jaw open
for air
as you
caught the
pass, swiveled-and-tossed
sweat slinging
from blond
bangs: basket.

Later your
daughter: same
hip-forward
moves downcourt:
legacy in limbs.