Recital by an odd Young Woman. Poetry.

  

An auditorium mostly used 

For Seniors, cribbage, bumper pool 

Guitar lessons, book club, yoga. 

Well sort of. 

But Thursday nights at eight. 

Talent, readings of all sorts. 

Song. 

Even a dodgy female ventriloquist. 

And a terrier who does tricks 

Well, more than half the time. 

And then Daphne. 

Pigtails and no make-up. 

Bag dress, shift, potato sack? 

Mustard leggings. 

And Chuck Taylor All Star 

Sneakers. 

Reading next with a sultry voice 

That did not match the rest. 

Poems with fire. 

A Bully 

From junior high 

A smirk and fast hands. 

A black eye if you falter. 

A pond quivering 

Before nightfall, fireflies 

A-dance in tribute to 

Day’s death. 

And night hawk’s swoosh. 

The next, a short trip to 

The altar. 

Praying so unfamiliar 

But honest, transparent, broken 

Needing help, needing God. 

(As if she were describing herself. 

Well guess what.) 

She was totally let in 

Yucky exterior coating. 

Totally flummoxed by 

The Voice, the conjured mood. 

The Gioconda lips. 

The slight hips. 

Poetry mistress on her way. 

With convincing words painted

that most might see.