flatter and harder than
hammered steel,
vibrates my spine
in the overheated room
Poetry read far and wide
over the antiquated PA
punctuated by the confused
yaps and barks
of a visiting Shih Tzu
The cobbled-together track
lighting, coating the slapdash
whitewash on the particleboard
with piss yellow and
wan orange light
The alcoholic antics
of the elderly poet with
silvery Moe Howard hair
cracking two-liners,
and demanding lighting changes—
Now the weak warm light
blasted with cold blue
fluorescence
Five poems become ten
as the charming old guy
forgets that it’s a group
reading and keeps reading
like it’s his last chance
to wow ‘em with the stamina
of a drunken teen and
the economy and wit
of a Buddhist master sweeping
a bird shit covered courtyard
Then a man—
an Italian man—
barely asks to re-read
a poem in Italian
and the free-for-all circus begins
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