Head Roaming

HEAD ROAMING

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

That doesn’t require a firm chaperone

As a poet shares where her mind took a stroll.

By Rick Bylina                                                            

4/13/16