There's a local group that regularly meets to read poetry together, the Friday Noon Poets. They're a great bunch of people and they write or find a great assortment of poetry to read each week. I usually leave after the reading ends, with errands to run or other meetings to get to. But there's a group of people who sit there, like they're waiting for the others to leave...
After The Reading Is Over
After the reading is over
and some of us drive home
there’s a group that stays behind,
leaving the some to wonder what goes on.
Do they break out the really good stuff,
work that’s ahead of its time,
stanzas of overwhelming beauty
that send shivers down the spine
and back up again,
one tingling vertebra at a time?
Do they bring out the Tuscan cheese
and the Bordeaux wine
their private reserve Billy Collins,
their best original lines, and party?
Or are they reading sonnets of infinite sadness
so profound they think we couldn’t bear it?
Whatever the case, it leaves me wondering,
what do they have that they’re not sharing?