the poetry reading

the church is full
when you arrive.
having found parking
at the last moment,
hurriedly
fast walking
through alleys,
and side streets.
it's a well groomed
crowd, well mannered.
quiet as if
a church service
might take place
after all.
without knowing,
you can sense
education. that
many are well read,
well versed,
the glasses on noses,
the hair pulled
back, the neatness
of their clothes
and shoes. fingers
to pursed lips.
the poet, finally,
after introductions
and announcements,
adjustments
to the sound system,
and his microphone
clipped to his lapel,
he begins to read
his poetry.
it is clear and concise.
no thesaurus
is needed, no
dictionary or knowledge
of greek mythology.
there is no bite taken
when you look at one
another and say,
what's this?
with purpose, it seems,
he stays away
from angst. he keeps
it light, rewarding you
for coming so far,
in the rain to hear
him. the banter
and preview of each
piece is amusing. the night
is neither too long
or too short. it's
enough to make
you say, oh, how nice.