My Opening Appearance after Chase Twitchell by Michael Dwayne Smith

I read this poem for an exhibit opening in a local gallery.

Nobody knew what I was talking about, but they smiled kindly

and clapped when I signaled the end of the poem by smiling.

A young woman wearing a red shawl over her black hair

introduced herself after I’d finished reading and asked,

Would I read at the opening of her solo show? I said I would

if I could figure out what I was talking about. She said

I was about to find out. Outside, a bunch of skateboard punks

broke bottles, threw punches, and cheered in the parking lot.

A drunk photographer bought me a beer and explained in detail

her true passion was constructing miniatures, exact scale replicas

of abandoned places— gas stations and diners up and down

Route 66. It struck me that I didn’t remember anyone’s name,

that I couldn’t name what my poem was supposed to be about.

This leather-jacketed, faux beatnik snapped his fingers and said

I had the rhythms right. He knows, he was there… Kerouac’s

spectacular vernacular, Ginsberg’s interlacing ecstasies.

How would I know what I should know about whatever it is

I’m talking about, I asked, but the gallery was empty and

the lights were out. Everyone had gone home to finish drinking.

I was standing in a dark space, hearing echoes, and had only

poems where the answers to my questions might have been.

Michael Dwayne Smith lives near a Mojave Desert ghost town with his family and rescued animals. His most recent book isRoadside Epiphanies (Cholla Needles Press, 2017). Nominated multiple times for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, his work haunts many literary houses--including The Cortland Review, New World Writing, Star 82 Review, Blue Fifth Review, Skidrow Penthouse, Word Riot, Rat's Ass Review, Gravel, San Pedro River Review--and has been widely anthologized. When not writing or teaching, he edits Mojave River Press & Review.