there is a poet crying. she read her poem earlier.
now it is not her turn to read. it’s her time to cry.
perhaps the cheap cardboard wine loosened a sad memory,
sent it spilling onto the floor, a moan leaking from her eyes.
the other poets ignore her, embarrassed. dictionaries with hair.
bower birds of words. after all, she’s had her turn.
besides, they prefer their emotions to be distilled to an essence,
boiled away to leave a black residue on white paper.