We ride Revel scooters in the cold
from Greenpoint to Williamsburg.
The gig is at Pete's Candy Store.
I don't invite anyone, but people show.
I run into an old poet friend, Rafaella,
with whom I used to work at Alice's Tea Cup
which was a lifetime ago.
We ask how each other are doing,
but answer in vague generalities,
because there is too much to list.
On stage, all my poems are about love lately,
and my younger self would've hated it,
but the crowd – mostly hipster girls in glasses
and youngmen in the beanies that sit
on top of their heads (what's the point?) –
loves the lessons I've learned
from lost love many moons ago.
My friends left, because they were only there to see me.
I get it; I don't care for poetry nights either.
It's all good, I tell myself, ordering a club soda at the bar,
shaking hands and fending off compliments.
The other poets crowd around, boxers after a match,
some with adrenalin still churning,
others with an air of rather haughtiness.
I ignore it all, put in my time, escape
without saying goodbye, walk through the night.
Eventually, I met Matt on the roof at Twins Lounge.
He asks me how the show was; Good, I say,
not questioning why he wasn't there.
It's cold, we watch girls, we laugh.
This is what being a working poet is like,
reading and rambling on, trying to find inspiration
in the idiosyncrasies that dot life.
It's not all love and death, sometimes it is beautiful
but boring life and nights where nothing much happens.
Parting ways, I go home and write this poem.
I wonder to myself if it would be meta to perform this
at the next reading, or if it's lame.
Laying in bed alone at night is when
all the questions arise, like what the hell am I doing,
is it worth it, am I good or bad or mediocre?
Why does anxiety wait until we are silent
and alone to rear its ugly head?
Tomorrow is Saturday and I hope
something fun happens.