Soon a few more poet-wannabes walked in, some old, some young. There were ten of us waiting when the door opened and a gray-haired man entered, his eyes downcast, his back hunched. He wore a pair of wrinkled khakis pulled up high and cinched with a ratty belt, a rumpled white button-down shirt and a pair of thick, black glasses held together with some clear tape and a tiny paper clip for a hinge. When he reached the front of the room, he tilted his head back to look us over for a few moments, and then he sat down. He placed two fatigued Stop-n-Shop plastic bags on the table in front of him. From one, he pulled out the books required for class: The Longman Dictionary of Poetic Terms and The Practice of Poetry.