At the Poetry Reading
John Brehm
I can’t keep my eyes off the poet’s
wife’s legs—they’re so much more
beautiful than anything he might
be saying, though I’m no longer
in a position really to judge,
having stopped listening some time ago.
He’s from the Iowa Writers Workshop
and can therefore get along fine
without my attention. He started in
reading poems about his childhood—
barns, cornsnakes, gradeschool, flowers,
that sort of stuff—the loss of
innocence he keeps talking about
between poems, which I can relate to,
especially under these circumstances.
Now he’s on to science, a poem
about hydrogen, I think, he’s trying
to imagine himself turning into hydrogen.
Maybe he’ll succeed. I’m imagining
myself sliding up his wife’s fluid,
rhythmic, lusciously curved, black-
stockinged legs, imagining them arched
around my shoulders, wrapped around my back.
My God, why doesn’t he write poems about her!
He will, no doubt, once she leaves him,
leaves him for another poet, perhaps,
the observant, uninnocent one, who knows
a poem when it sits down in a room with him.
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What do you think? I’ve been to my fair share of poetry readings, and most times rather than not, they can be quite yawn-inducing. Yet I collect, read and write poetry. I think, perhaps, poetry was meant to be read. It is of ink and parchment, and perhaps even kindles and monitors.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’d be looking at the poet’s wife’s legs too. Wouldn’t you?
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If you like this poem as much as I do, visit Mr. Brehm’s website HERE.
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Thank you, Pervert Savant, for submitting this lovely piece for our PSO-etry collection. You sure do know how to pick ‘em.
xo, Angela