at a reading by Lucie Brock-Broido, Writers Institute Summer series
Chairs creak, mine politely quiet, but
the impish whine of my gut is like the
anguished air of a twisted thought.
Later, after others loudly flush
run water, crank out clean towels
I speak freely in my tiled stall
break the sudden silence alone
with my most expressive vowels.
(I've been reading this a lot at open mics throughout NatPoMo)