What I Did With My Sunday Afternoon

I cleaned off the patio. Readied my grill and pots. Moved furniture and clutter. Decided to attend a local poetry reading and Open Mic. Went for a swim, and prepared a wonderful grilled dinner. How do I know its wonderful? Well when hubby begins to walk around bowing toward my feet, saying repeatedly "I am not worthy", then I figure its good. He's happy, I am happy. I also wrote a poem about my experience going to watch an admired poet who lives not too far from me. Lets see if you can figure out how the time transpired.

Remember its a tongue and cheek piece...

South Brunswick Library, Meeting Room A

I.

A librarian points out a room from the printout
way back in the far left corner off the front entrance

heading in that direction through shelves of books
startled adults unattended tables dodging messy chairs

distracted by white folded paper art work under lamps
cluttered walls of posters filled with color

eventually finding the way through the children section
towards two large inviting open doors and stroll into

a meeting room with only two people waiting on the back row
poets who will read from their just published books

in the blue decorated space with five rows of empty chairs
I awkwardly say hello taking the third chair from the left

on the third row as I begin staring at the old podium when
noticing a stink bug making its way up

the second chair from the left on the first row
it gradually gets to the top of the seat and oddly

for the next few minutes begins pacing back and forth.

II.

The organizer of the monthly poetry gathering
makes his way to the front of the room where

he begins to speak tapping his finger on the microphone
he asks if can we hear him over the speakers humming noise

the audience begins to give advice on what to do while
the man fidgets with the controls and with the combined time

gone by I look down at my watch impatiently
my mind drifts off to my own sound of questions

will the poets read from their newest work
maybe from their older books or possibly

each have written new pieces which the group will enjoy
glancing back at the previously occupied chair to check on

the uninvited spring guest noticing it has disappeared
maybe the sound system problem became too boring for us all.

III.

The poets are introduced and begin to read
about sleeping half-awake desire disaster wind

thinking disturbance push-ups windows loss
gardens ground food fearless unafraid and cracking up

all in a robotic monotone speech and rhythm
had we all been transported into a warehouse

where machines are rolling pushing pulling punching
holes into items which would be useful to hold

sit wait carry measure transfer dispense or as some
last words read “pressing something to the ground”

this room where everyone continues to sit patiently
on metal and plastic chairs that I cannot help but think

in one of the much admired poet’s own words
“the slip of the tongue can change desire into disaster”.


Did you see my little friend on the top of the chair in my photo? Heh! It was pacing back and forth for a long time.