"Read it to me."
"What? No way!"
"Look, there's a rhythm to a poem, a certain flow. Nobody knows that as well as the writer does. Read it to me. Please."
She still didn't seem convinced.
"Wouldn't you want me to hear it first rather than your class?"
"You think she'll make me read it to the class?!"
"If she knows what she's doing – she will. Poetry is hanging words in the air. Come on."
He nudged her shoulder with his.
"Humor me."
Dawn kept her gaze on the sheet even after she was finished, refusing to make eye contact. But she could hear the smile in his voice when he said her name, trying to make her look at him. Finally she did, and he was smiling.
"It's beautiful."
"You think?"
"Yes. Aren't you happy with it?"
"Well, yeah, I guess I am. If it wasn't for the last line."
"What's wrong with it?"
"I'm not sure, it just doesn't feel right. Maybe it needs something more, a word I didn't think of?"
"Maybe. Or maybe it needs less."
"Huh?"
"Sometimes a line becomes stronger when you get rid of something. Change the structure, break it up. Find out if there's anything there that you don't need – and scratch it. Might make it more powerful. Poetry is distilled short stories, you know?"
Dawn stared at him until he shrugged.
"Just sayin'."