She smiles and stands at the chrome microphone
The impatient crowd sits in black, hard-back chairs
A camera watches from a low-flying drone.
“It’s poetry, friends, the language of the soul.”
The audience silences their pesky phones.
Anticipation prickles necks with raised hairs.
In the pregnant pause when done, a stomach groans
Laughter intrudes as the ending timer tolls.
She closes her notebook, “Let’s all eat some scones.”
There’s something about outdoor reading affairs
As a poet shares where her mind took a stroll.