Once a brave woman named Barb
found herself in party director’s garb.
Making of cakes, passing of cards
Barb, of much time and talents, was robbed.
The old guard passes;
an infinite loop— the silent shape of tears.
No one wrote— the writers, the managers,
the green philodendrons.
What a wonderful day!
No one in Developer Press leaving for Netscape!
With what voice, and what song would you, Barb,
call the workers to their books?
Wild manager, wild editor, at what age
will you make your first flight?
So much depends upon the brown-haired Barbara,
her eyes glazed with tasks beside the blurred screen.