Reclaiming the Lyric

After the collective reading, mixed bag, the visiting poet laureate speaks to hangers on, his right hand holds his cheek as if he needs perhaps, a cigarette. I wonder if it’s the Rocky Mountain altitude or remnant alcohol that stakes him, dreamy and distanced, even as he stands present as if imported, fragile. Wearing the anticipated blue-gray, he pours critique and future itinerary while around him the working hosts break down the folding table and chairs. Our tired stares transport us temporarily out to sea in this landlocked state. Still, I wish that I was standing on a remarkable table elsewhere, reading bawdy song, advocating we set fire to the menus, all too familiar now. May the river of collective angst and honor take to slicing rich portabella mushrooms, grill steak, and listen instead to our wise children populating contemplative classrooms in another city, making tiny documentaries of what they see on the horizon in front of them.

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As Mourning Doves Persist

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