Nothing to Read The poetry reading is this Sunday, And I have nothing new to read. What shall I do? If this were a lively evening event At the bustling coffee place across the street I could conspire to have all my friends Order extra-loud espresso during my time slot, While at the same time I would move my lips silently, Pretending to be having trouble with the microphone So that no one would be able to tell That I had nothing new to read. But alas! This reading is on a quiet Sunday afternoon In the back room of a place That may not even offer espresso. And we will all be gathered in an intimate circle With no scapegoat microphone to help me hide My creative shortcomings. I could hope for help from above, Since we're under the approach path For a nearby air base, And some of those fighter planes are louder Than any espresso machine I've ever encountered. But that's not something I should really count on. Should I play a pity card? Problem is, I haven't been dealt one recently And I don't feel right lying about it, Even if lying won't get me sentenced to Devil's Island Or the chain gang Or even being made to write "I will not make up false excuses for not having a poem to read" A hundred times on the blackboard after school. I can be vague about the situation, Even to the point of winning some kind of award for vagueness. But I cannot outright lie. This is not the kind of thing I feel right lying about And these are not people I feel right lying to. So it looks like I'll just have to write up a full confession And read that. -- Thomas G. Digby Written 16:57 07/07/2011 Edited 22:54 07/07/2011