her poem opening

Her poem
was

A visually-pleasing block
of
text,

opening out 
and down

.

It was nice, how it all di
vided up into positive neg
ative space alternating -

Almost as if
You could tell what's

next

just by looking at it! Interpreting 

shapes,and I told her
what I thought of it, and

she thought that was o.k.
She was very polite and in
terested. Neither of us

had to be nice. We were two

completely free
grownups, 

discussing and
relating as we chose. I
work in a daycare, so -

breath of fresh air, you know?

We stood there, at her poem opening,
At the Marja Tivot McRose-DeVeau
Immortal Soul Memorial Coffee Gallery

talking, I with a smooth and huge elan,
she,

listening animatedly, 

chiming in assent, suspension 

of judgment, or question using

a singular, singularly bell-like demisyllable: 

"Hmmm,"

interspersed with the sharp, clanged brass
of her laughter,
When I blew it.

Asked her

how she thought I could go about getting in,
a booking. An exhibit. "Oh,"

Her face fell, or maybe
ten years slid from it

and I was facing this
child's guarded and sensitive
self. All the ambitions and emotions
poets are prey to, the moods
- the competitiveness - "You're a poet?"

You hear it? The hesitance?

If she finds out how good I am, I'm screwed.

But I will not lie. Betray my
self, my work - besides

She already knows I asked about how
to get an "in," a poem exhibit! Why

is she

asking,

if I'm a poet, then?

Who does she think even
goes to these things?

Non-poets?

No. No, not statistically. No. It's poets.
Just looking for their opening, plus
assorted significant or interested others
of poets, some poet dragged into bed
to get them to come - but honestly

not me! I wasn't

looking for an opening

I was happy just to be at hers. I was curious,
is all. That's all, so I asked. And a poet

should always be

curious.

the least bit peculiar

sorry

"Yes! I am." I said. "Sorry I drifted off, just then!"

"Composing a poem...?" The wisdom and years
returned
in a beautifully-turned smirk.

"Ah,"

I hesitate, shift to the present tense
and deliberately

blush, that plus a touch
of the flutter of a bird

in my voice as I answer,

"Yes," - as if abashed!! Terrible, 

but I can't help myself, 

really. It's just to put her back

at ease, instead of up. It's

her poetry opening
and we were getting on
well, and all. I'd like

to keep it pleasant this evening.

"Tell,"

she says,

"Me the poem you're composing."

Sorry guys gotta go