A sort of realism

I went to a poetry reading tonight in a very small art gallery. There were twelve chairs and nine of us, including the poet painter and her friend who also read a few pieces. The work was raw and personal. A sort of realism. I was a stranger, much older than the others. In the end I said thank you, but no one heard.

My father’s old Lee Enfield, wrapped and hidden in the bedroom closet comes to mind. A clip with three bullets is tucked between old letters and journals somewhere in the cellar. I’m writing this in the grocery store parking lot, rain drumming on the car roof.

I left quickly. They stood outside lighting cigarettes and watched me drive away.


One thought on “A sort of realism

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s