jbi reading

the men are seething
what are they really thinking?
their women to shield them from thinking
their fathers hanging over them like
rulers breaking
i hate to go to poetry readings in this town
they are full of old people
clapping in comfortable dementia
long grey hair daring you to
swear

the one lone soldier
who mounts the podium like a man walking on the
first crackling layer of ice
to reveal it is actually solid beneath

i love that breeze a person makes when they walk by you
leaving the room
a touch so human it doesn't even belong
here anymore
you notice it because it doesn't belong

writing words onto a paper napking with a red crayon
conserving words
i lov 2 abbreivate
the small of wax which you forgot
of crayons on napkin
which you forgot

that slow way people always read poetry
like margaret atwood
who did it right the first time
its rude to point
dont you all know that?

people staring
can they see you?
that would be
miraculous