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Personal Note:

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Poem

Poached, steamed, broiled, boiled, 
dried, fried  in soups and saucers, 
piled high,  their eyes bright, silver bodies shimmer in the harsh light of the hall.  
Fish and open mic night at Der Schnitzel.  
Ten fish dishes
ten acts.   

Comics, poets, a demure cello player,  “a little person” (with a big heart) on harmonica,
 a shy, chubby teen singing a familiar “Oh, Baby...Oh, Baby” tune, acappella,  memorized
note by note by note,  listening to a CD every day after pom-pom practice.

Fierce in its stilted taste and organized fun, 
glorious in attempts to dazzle and entertain,
certain the crowd is buzzed and fuzzy 
on the beer and polite, white wine.    

We squirm and fidget, embarrassed for the people on the stage – a few feet above our heads 
and so close to our table  we see their silver fillings on the high notes. 
There are holes in the older woman's hose when she sits on the stool to read her poem. 
She has one, clear, drop of mucus on the tip of her nose. 
Some of us can only focus on that precise,  perfectly round secretion - so clear and
symmetrical 
the unintentional lens magnifies the stage behind her. 
We feel sorry for and made more uneasy 
when she loses her place.  
Her poem is about lost love. 
When she finishes, she puts her head down and seems to sob. 
Her shoulders hunch and her chest surges.  The stage hand moves to her quickly to touch
her shoulder and say something in her ear.

The fish know nothing of this drama. They lie quietly in the pans and plates, oblivious to
all around them.  They are better for it.

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