poems by owen lucas

I used to cry, she says,
most of the time, turning
with a candid twist and nod
to see who's listening,
until maybe fifteen.
The bubbling chat throughout
the lecture hall rises
above our heads,
then swills, drops.
Don Juan steps up
to the podium, puffs out,
risks popping his silky shirt
and whipping out his rug.
Weeping girl is kinda quiet.
His ponytail and sideburns
twitch with every sneer,
this guy's a phenomenon,
thinks he's a muskateer.
In the first row
a mature student crosses
her legs, and my tutor,
a gay Oxford researcher,
fidgets in his seat and all but
giggles as the aging stud
leans forward over his notes,
deriding Shakespeare like
it was small talk on a date,
eyes rolled, conspiritorially
twinkling, an uncle's leer.
Five years ago you could
see him inflating in a club,
sock stuffed down his briefs,
twirling his mustachios,
seducing a Masters student
in his Don Juan duds.