By Robin Wright
Poets gather at Barnes & Noble and vocalize verse during National Poetry Month. I’m listening to magical metaphors when a man leans to my ear, asks if we’re reading our poems. The not-poetic, one-syllable, “duh,” comes to mind, but I mind my manners, nod, and motion to the chairs. He responds by asking who my favorite poet is but doesn’t wait for an answer, tells me his are Frost, Sandburg, and James Whitcomb Riley. I wonder what they would think of him, interrupting poetry to talk about poetry, but who said love of poetry has to be polite.
“In these uncertain times, I write to stay sane.” – the writer