My Emily Dickinson?

The next day there she was again,
re-reading the same Hart Crane poems
which are despised by the multitudes,

abhorred by illiterate aborigines,
not small enough for the pigmies,
not gay enough for the gay,

not Mexican enough for the wetbacks,
not racist enough for the Klan,
not brave enough for the Marines.

Emily begins to see why
Crane was so misunderstood
and misunderstood by so many.

She slams the door of my truck shut
like a clam.
Skinny as pecan trees in winter

she hurries up the street,
disappears into an elementary school,
endangering kids with her poetry.