At 7:04 p.m., the folding chairs were full. At 7:06, the host announced that the reading would begin as soon as everyone who had come to support a friend stopped whispering about when it would end.
At 7:11, the first poet approached the microphone carrying twelve pages and a thermos. The thermos received a separate introduction.
By 7:29, the audience had developed a system of signaling for help. One person rubbed an eyebrow to indicate that the poem had returned to childhood. Two fingers against the chin meant that an additional grandmother had appeared. A long stare at the exit meant that the poet had begun explaining the title.
The organizers had anticipated this. They unveiled an Express Departure Lane for attendees whose support had been adequately demonstrated. The lane began behind the coat rack, passed through a curtained alcove, and ended at a desk where volunteers asked departing guests to name one image they would carry with them.
Several people answered rain. Rain was rejected because it had appeared in every poem so far.
One woman offered a chipped bowl. She was waved through. A man said silence, and was escorted back to his chair because silence was the title of the next sequence.
At intermission the host thanked the community for holding space, then asked everyone to move their cars because the building would be towed at ten. Nobody laughed. It was the first statement all evening that seemed to have consequences.
The final reader began at 9:52 with a brief note about the manuscript. The note required a second note to clarify what was meant by brief. At 10:17, the Express Departure Lane had a waiting list. At 10:24, it became a workshop.
Outside, a man standing alone beneath a streetlight said he had heard enough to change his life. He was the parking attendant. He was changing shifts.
