the bethesda reading

in her boot, her foot,
her toes, broken and set,
stitched and mangled
right again, she walks
leaning against you,
you into her towards
the crumbled steps of
the writer's center.
you see the paint peeling
on the wood, the rails
rusted, a window where
a bird tried
to fly through leaving
a puncture, beak
sized, in the pane.
art has no money for maintenance,
it appears.
the poets are there,
with their chapbooks,
their poems on printed
paper, not nervous in
their small spotlight,
but happy to be heard
by an audience of ten,
in a room that sits a
hundred. there is applause
and signings.
a reception follows.
crackers and yellow cheese,
a bottle of wine,
the top screwed off again,
paper cups,
and a stack of napkins
of a lesser brand.