Another Poetry Festival
Another poetry reading.
I arrive late and drop my phone in a workshop.
I capriciously retrieve it and slink to the corner,
My notebook and pen
Poised and ready
For my muse to be resurrected after
A long hibernation.
This is why I am here,
To absorb through omosis
Inspiration and guidance
By the brilliant featured poets
(clearly stated in the festival program)
Who grace us amateurs with their
Published verse and professional advice.
That is the reason I tell myself
And everyone else,
But, I also have a secret agenda
Which causes me to compulsively
Scan the faces and profiles of each
Audience member
In workshops, open mikes and the main lecture hall
For one specific person,
an ordinary man,
With dark hair and eyes
Who I once loved.
It has been three years,
But the need to see him makes my mouth dry
I want to have an awkward conversation
Peppered with stilted small talk and profound subtext
Which my posture, eye contact, tone of my voice
Clearly indicates:
I still look good, don’t I?
I don’t want a reconciliation,
Only an endless moment
(Like a scene from an old movie)
Where we wistfully stare into each others’ eyes, and
Fused with old love, regret, longing
I telepathically communicate:
I am so happy we were together once,
Even though it ended with us acting like
Two toddlers throwing tantrums and telling lies,
It took me a long time to move on, but I did.
Day passes into evening,
My heart leaps and sinks in my chest
With hope and despondence whenever I glimpse a man
Who has a similar jacket, hair color or hat
But, he isn’t here
Instead, my notebook fills with quotes, notes and poems.
My thoughts become occupied with
composiing chap book of poetry and
Taking a writing class.
I finish the day
With relief and confidence that my muse is alive
and I can write again
and that is enough.
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