Reception
What am I
doing here?
Adrift in a
clutch of the well-to-do,
gathered to
hear the poet
who will
read in concert tomorrow…
but first,
this private reading,
inside an
inner circle
to which I
don’t belong.
Careless
chatter of celebrities,
of tennis
and trips, of people
whose names
I will google later,
in order to
be further intimidated.
They sip
Campari and Prosecco,
these
magazine people
with their
classic houses, and suitable books,
with
servants, antiques and
classic
cars, with waterlily ponds
and
sculpture on the patio.
The
evening’s star stops and smiles,
and I
introduce myself,
spinning my
wineglass between my fingers,
then yield
my place to someone
with more
memorable things to say.
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