It was one week, to the hour, since my arrival in boston. I had just completed a poetry reading. It was the third reading I have attended this week. You wouldn’t believe the lunacy I’ve seen, passed off as poetry, or maybe you would, in which case you have my sympathy. This reading was not so fraught with lunacy, and so I decided to read some poems.
I started with “Housekeeping” and the poem was well received. I was nervous, because one of the previous poets actually made a few people cry, and one of the other poets illustrated his work with sculptures. I read: The House in the Yard", I also read three works in progress.
Afterwards, there was a man discreetly making his rounds to congratulate his favorite poets. i stepped outside for some air, and when I came back inside to get my things, the man called my name from across the room, which was now essentially empty. I was shocked. Being a stranger in this city, I am entirely unaccustomed to the sound of my own name, and also to the idea that someone might remember it. He said that so-and-so has had to call in sick and there’s a spot available for a poet on television this week. He asked me if I would like to take his place and be one of the featured artists on Boston’s cable channel. I accepted the offer, of course, and promptly made my way to an Irish pub for a celebratory drink.
Tomorrow at four PM I’ll show up for my first ever television appearance, my fifteen minutes of fame might just be about to begin, who knows? And to think, I’ve only been in Boston for a week!