ALAN WALOWITZ
At the Poetry Reading It’s poetry, so the crowd is thin-more worn and older than last time. It’s another hot day getting nearer the solstice and a few take seats at the ends of rows, so they don’t have far to go when they have to go. One lady, old--my age--seems bewildered, having only wandered into the library to get out of the sun. She turns to me quizzically. I whisper, Poetry reading. She nods and decides to stay. Maybe it’s the free coffee, though so far only a battered pot, a jar of instant, and an old Cremora its insides requiring a sharp instrument to urge some of the chemicals loose. And someone forgot the sugar, so one of the assembled rustles up some Sweet’N Low from her purse. And there are donut holes pre-wrapped for safety, four to a pouch. The emcee comes forward, describes our intention, our raison d’etre, how poetry is the life-force, and, while he’s at it, mentions this summer heat and global warming, and how we’ve all got to do our part whatever that is. But a mic’s only good as the speaker’s willingness to talk into it and he’s a poet-type unused to such conveniences. He’s nice enough, but doesn’t rhyme, and he should speak up: the lady takes her tote, stands to leave. Hey, I tell her, I’m next. I have some poems, as if this should have been encouragement. She says--and not unkindly-Can’t stay, but I’m sure your mother would be very proud. © Alan Walowitz 2023 November - December POETRY & WRITING © liveencounters.net
