July 7, 2026

on not reading at the open mic

I was late, arriving past the time the sign-up sheet was filled,
and found an empty folding chair in the final row. The sun had not
already set and the light came in at such a photogenic slant.
Len was deep into the first act, cracking jokes about the wallet
he’d left on the car roof while getting gas, microphone in hand.
The itch was there to find a poem, leave some mark behind,
to want someone to come up at the close of the night, tell me what
I’d shared had meant something, and to ask if I might
have published somewhere and could they buy the book. Yet
no poem sprang to mind. I was tired from the day, had left
the house empty-handed save my keys and phone and Chapstick.
Each reader rose to the low stage when their name was called.
A woman wandered by the entrance with her dog. A tourist
read the poster by the door and moved on down the block. I listened
to the poems and clapped when they were done and noticed
I did not need that same applause just now. And how good it felt
to tilt a little forward in my seat and rest my arms on my knees instead
of a podium. How quietly the evening emptied me of dread and regret,
so by the time I stood to leave, my body—lightened from the heft
of expectation—almost drifted home. Upstairs, I found my wife who asked,
”How was it?” and my answer couldn’t capture things exactly. As I write
this, the sky is clouding over, but there’s no rain in the forecast.