“Oh, and would you bring something to read for us?”
— The postscript that kills.

The voice on the phone had invited me
to sit in a coffee shop
early on a Sunday afternoon
and be interviewed
for television.

I should have known:
I had seen her at gala intermissions
followed by a camera crew
shouting questions
at outrageously coiffed celebrities
who presumably had
more interesting opinions
then we jabbering peons
from the cheap seats.

Now, it would seem,
either everyone worthwhile
had canceled out
or I had stopped
drooling on the street.

What would I read for “us”?
There is no shortage of material;
I have reams of pages
on which my words appear.
But now I have to decide
which of these pages
makes me feel enthusiastic
enough to read it aloud
but not feel threatened
by the compulsion
of some god of writing
to punish the babblings
of idiots, morons, and fools.
A fool I do not mind being;
there is something forgivable
about being a fool.
I guess I fear most
that the writing CSI team
will analyze the evidence
then prove that
what was committed here
was not poetry but nonsense.

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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