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Lady at the Open Mic
these are only musings, musing
on her and the grace she moved with
and I wonder did it come with age,
a self-assured wisdom after the growing ache of a man looking through her
crumbled to ashes?
did she bloom beneath
that disposition undisturbed, unflattened
by Invisible Woman Syndrome?
or maybe they kept looking
like i couldn’t help but do, her
lines enumerated beneath feline eyes
and white cropped hair and i could in that moment feel her
bathed in Australian sun, skin tattooed with the crinkled euphoria of happy recollection.
her poems were good.
i wished i could muster a conceivable reason
to hug her but there really wasn’t one because
people weren’t giving out hugs after the readings
so i pictured what it’d be like if she were my mother,
would her warmth like a quiet charisma
have made me colder as if two crystals passing energy between them containing all….. but none unto themselves?
so she made me think of everything
and nothing by means of standing still
because see she read so well I was captivated
by the Australian accent and perhaps in her plain-clothed regency she reminded me of a cat and naturally I couldn’t help but think
she was….. sublime
or something like that
Copyright ©
Erin Beckett
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