Exposure
The afterparty followed three days
of song, poetry, community.
Poets, musicians, and hangers-on,
mingled in the guest house
on the edge of the farm.
I’m waiting on my friends to arrive.
Feeling like a hanger-on.
It’s been many years since I
had a formal excuse to be in this kind of room.
So, feeling awkward,
I fall back
into my old and worn
role of observer.
When I can lose the mirror
in the background,
I lean in.
I make mental notes.
Then you arrived,
my new not-quite-friend.
We’d bonded ever so briefly the day before
when I showed up to your poetry workshop
wearing the same Nick Cave t-shirt.
“I like your shirt.”
You engaged in an animated conversation
with the woman seated beside me.
I followed silently.
After a while, her animation became dominant.
I saw your frustration as you tried
to squeeze in your pieces
of the alternating monologues.
And then your eyes caught mine.
We both looked away,
a little too quickly.