Poetry Week

I've been somewhat remiss in writing poems. As Vienna Teng says, "It's been too long, I know. Silence has compound interest. My habit is to declare bankruptcy every few months and hope for clemency." This will be a week of poems, both new and old. If poetry is not your thing, feel free to take a week's vacation and come back next Sunday.

Today's poem is really rough, mostly because it's based on an idea and I'm not sure a poem is the best way to get at it.
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Hooding

We each invited two to hood us on stage
and I learned the most about my classmates that moment.
Who strode up with confidence to shake the dean's hand,
leaving their parents in their wake?
Whose parents wore traditional garb
and waved to all of Nigeria in the wings?
Who was accompanied by a brother or sister
and why was my mind probing the cause?
Some mothers walked with a limp.
Some fathers led by seeing-eye dogs.
Some graduates hooded by their children.
Some holding babies in their arms.
Some wore resplendent pants beneath gown;
others - perhaps - wore nothing.
From the clicking of heels, you could estimate
how quickly or slowly each graduate ascended
and perhaps how many additional inches
their shoes afforded.
How did I approach the stage, I wonder.
Carried by applause and tremor,
I paid no heed to how I walked
or where I looked, letting instinct
dictate the cadence of my steps.