Another Poetry Festival

Another poetry reading. I arrive late and drop my phone in a workshop. I capriciously retrieve it and slink to the corner, My notebook and pen Poised and ready For my muse to be resurrected after A long hibernation. This is why I am here, To absorb through omosis Inspiration and guidance By the brilliant featured poets (clearly stated in the festival program) Who grace us amateurs with their Published verse and professional advice. That is the reason I tell myself And everyone else, But, I also have a secret agenda Which causes me to compulsively Scan the faces and profiles of each Audience member In workshops, open mikes and the main lecture hall For one specific person, an ordinary man, With dark hair and eyes Who I once loved. It has been three years, But the need to see him makes my mouth dry I want to have an awkward conversation Peppered with stilted small talk and profound subtext Which my posture, eye contact, tone of my voice Clearly indicates: I still look good, don’t I? I don’t want a reconciliation, Only an endless moment (Like a scene from an old movie) Where we wistfully stare into each others’ eyes, and Fused with old love, regret, longing I telepathically communicate: I am so happy we were together once, Even though it ended with us acting like Two toddlers throwing tantrums and telling lies, It took me a long time to move on, but I did. Day passes into evening, My heart leaps and sinks in my chest With hope and despondence whenever I glimpse a man Who has a similar jacket, hair color or hat But, he isn’t here Instead, my notebook fills with quotes, notes and poems. My thoughts become occupied with composiing chap book of poetry and Taking a writing class. I finish the day With relief and confidence that my muse is alive and I can write again and that is enough.