The Plot Needs More Bourbon

the last poetry reading
i went to was
back some months
ago.

logan and abby came
a couple,
my old flatmates good
people better friends.

we sat at the back where
i thought whether to read
of fireworks or polar bears.

i chose both, while we waited.

it was a night fit for the
New Zealand poet laureate;

he was there

to read.

special guests always
seem to bring
special companions

though,

not really his
fault…

an old man with
memory would

piss him off too.

and it did, i think,
this old man was
his fan.

the man took the stage
and talked of parties
back when

he’d met our
poet laureate

and others
that thought

the laureate was good.

abby said

‘what the hell is this?’

i said

‘it might be a poem’

we all laughed, we knew,
this was more weird
than poem.

so we sat and waited
until his wife

took him out.

then the laureate read
without thanks
to his fan.

he wasn’t bad i must say
though

he was an old man
too
and

i’d had about enough of
them

by that stage.

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