The folding chairs
looked like they'd survived
three divorces
and a flood.
A guy in a beret
read seventeen poems
about birds
that clearly wanted
nothing to do with him.
Someone clapped
after every line.
I suspect
it was his mother.
The coffee
had all the personality
of wet drywall,
but I drank two cups anyway.
It gave me something
to hold
while pretending
to understand
a poem about
the emotional life
of a zucchini.
When it was my turn,
I read a few pieces
about dead-end jobs,
cheap whiskey,
and people
who mistake volume
for wisdom.
A woman nodded
like I'd uncovered
the secret machinery
of existence.
I was mostly thinking
about cheeseburgers.
Afterward,
everyone said
we should do this again sometime.
That's what people say
instead of goodbye.
Outside,
the night
didn't care
who got published,
who won the open mic,
or whose metaphors
had the longest legs.
The moon
kept its opinions
to itself.
Probably the smartest poet
there.
Leon Drake is a Toronto based poet.
His work has been published in Fixator Press, The Literary Underground, The Rye Whiskey Review, Spill The Words Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, Sava Press and The Crossroads Magazine.
