Alone at the Reading

WOOHOO THE LAST FAUXPOWRIMO!!!

#30, comin' at ya.

Alone at the Reading


I left pieces of me in the cafe,
Pieces that clung to the clamor of poets on parade:
A raucous bunch I'd be loathed to quiet.
They trumpeted as they hooked onto my hands and feet
And stretched me across the room like a trampoline.
But no one wants a jump.
Tempted, perhaps.
Curious, as their fingers drum up and down their cups and cans
And plan to ask, "Who is this girl alone at the reading,
Scribbling blue babble while the lions roar and she ignores?
Maybe she's a poet too.
She looks unglued enough to join our tribe."
I am hopeful as the scribes call me over
And give me smiles and smokes
To coax me out of ALONE. 
By the end, it is the beginning.
Although my poetry goes unspoken,
I litter it across the cafe,
Along with the pieces I left for another parade.