Read one of my poems at the library?
My poetry writing class is taking a field trip next Tuesday to a poetry reading that includes an open mike section.
The poetry class teacher runs the poetry reading. “Tell me, if you want to read a poem. I’ll make sure you get in,” he said.
Should I read?
Seeing how nervous Big Mama is about her reading, I think I should get my nerves out of the way.
I’d read the poem that Fat Charlatan liked — and which she improved by deleting two lines. Thank you, FC!
My mother’s legacy
“What do you want when we die?”
My mother’s question surprised me.
What did she mean?
Did I want them cremated?
Did I want the world to end?
My mother quickly filled in.
“Joe wants the ship paintings. And the Picasso plates.”
Okay, her question was about things,
Things to be collected and passed along.
Things, not feelings.
Those were the currency of my family.
I didn’t want any thing, but I wanted something.
I wanted something that wasn’t antique or dollar-denominated.
Something that couldn’t be touched, but could be felt.
I got a box filled with jewelry instead.