Issue 11.2 Spring 2016

11.2 cover image

 

 

A READING IN THE VILLAGE

 

John Grey

 

 

I'm invited to a poetry reading
hosted by a friend down in the Village.
It's a private affair
held in a loft,
speaker in a chair,
everyone else on cushions.

 

She assumes all the parts in our lives -
anger, sorrow, fear, self-recrimination -
so we can just sit back
and let her get these things out of our systems
and into hers.

 

As poets go,
she's better than most I've heard.
She speaks clearly,
and not sing-songy
nor, as per the bane of most poets,
like a rapper on downers.
Sure, she's more miserable than most.
But her pain has words to back it up.

 

Later.
there's wine and cheese
and a chance to buy her chapbook.
She scribbles her name
in my copy.
I tell her I'm also a poet.
She says,
"Of course,"
not, "that's funny,
I could have sworn you were a fireman.”

 

Oddly enough,
we take the same subway car home
though she doesn't recognize me.
She stares down at the floor mostly -
the angry, sorrowful, fearful, self-recriminating floor.

 

 

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