Village Poetry Reading Poem by Glen Kappy

I met him at an open reading
in the basement of a church in Greenwich Village.
He stood to read—curly blond hair to shoulders
granny glasses, slight body in cotton turtleneck and jeans
baritone voice with arrogant edge and upper crust enunciation.

I heard his poems and wilted
like a plant dried up by blazing sun—
his grasp of life art literature far beyond his twenty years
a gift with words and range
to match his subtle thought.

At a table extra long—probably for pot-luck meals—
most of us with poems like scraps of bread
he spread a feast like the finest chef.

My eyes found Ree—with genius herself
whose look in reply said 'Isn't he something? '
I looked to others round the table
expecting other mouths agape at this display.
But they were absently shuffling papers and looking away.