When I walked into Egg in Williamsburg
alone for a reading series on a Wednesday night
last fall, I didn’t know what to expect.
The Brooklyn restaurant was outfitted normally—in the back,
where we were gathering, tables that seat two
to four people lined the sides of the room,
and a large communal table ran down the middle.
I surveyed the scene before choosing a seat
on the side and had only been sitting for about a minute
when a woman I didn’t know beckoned me to the communal table.
At the table, she asked me about myself
and my experience with reading poetry live.
I humbly said I had some, and she said this was her second time.
Soon after, another woman joined us, and she was a friend of the chef.
None of us had read any of the books by the night’s readers—Angelica Baker,
Will Chancellor, and James Hannaham—but by the end of the evening,
the two women, who had just met, decided to start a poetry club to discuss the authors’ books.
This is the spirit of what I love and the possibilities of this city,
even if I hate Brooklyn; it beckons.
I hope I don't let these women down.