Posted Monday, September 19th, 2005
She, In Meter
On a quiet Sunday evening, she drove to the Poetry Inn where she found herself alone in a lobby without a poet or playwright in sight—not even a biographer—so she sat in a plush floral chair just below the mini-window and waited for a writer of some kind to appear, and while she waited, she tapped her foot in rhythm to iambic pentameter until her calf muscles grew tired because lately she’d only been working with sonnets after she finished a long spell of just using experimental form and being far too addicted to the likes of e.e. cummings, who inspired her to collect seashells on the beach, but not today since she drove herself to the newly edited and revised Poetry Inn, built with consonants and vowels and maybe a few schwas sprinkled around for good measure, yet she had never been here, ever, for fear of failure, for fear of not fitting in, and most certainly for fear of just what she may learn from sitting, breathing, waiting, and being in the lobby, of which no one appeared yet to see what she wanted and why she was there: she knew however.
Comments [post a comment]
Posted by Sharon Hurlbut on Wednesday, September 21st, 2005 at 9:22 AM
What wonderful wordplay! I really enjoyed reading this.