To Die For

words … words … words

a spoonful of sugar

a mouth full of swords

you’ve seen him before

the young man in the back row

at the independent bookstore

at the author’s crowded reading

perspiring fidgeting unpleasantly

crossing uncrossing his legs

dirty worn a bit smelly but fit

dressed lightly for winter

not homeless exactly

resembling more a soldier

in a great american novel

just back from the war

he

makes

audible sighs

clears his throat over and over

annoying enough for those sitting nearby

but just below the threshold

for what interrupts

follows

along with the poet

as she recites at the podium

from her latest collection

her wool clothes modest and gray

an ivy clasp holding

the shawl on her shoulders

her hair brushed and tied neatly

behind her head in a bun

rises

suddenly in the middle of the finale

(a longer poem about some magic that’s forgotten)

staring at his phone as if he must go

the metal chair complaining

clawing the worn floor

disregards

instantaneously

whoever it was

plops himself back

steps

after the applause

almost unnoticed

into the line

slides

at his turn

a copy of the paperback book

across the wood table

where she hides

on the other side

a forced smile

her felt pen at the ready

to dedicate

to sign

to move on

gazes

over her head

as he unconvincingly says

that he liked the performance

his right hand reaching into

the inner pocket

of his dusty green jacket

just over the spot

where most people hide

their faltering hearts

mumbles

something inaudible

moves

the invisible hand as he

begins to confess

in a halting trembling voice

as their eyes finally meet

that her words have restored

his reason to live

confirmed his belief

in what to die for