VII

Sharon Olds finished her speech
a tiny peice of spittle clung
to the collar of a man in the front row
she winced a little.

Sue did a mental count in her head
who wasn't there
Lewis.
Phoebe.
everybody else was bright
pen to paper
smiling
ready to go home.
She side glanced her partner
nodding off in the chair
next to her.

Anthony lawrence stuck his hand in the air
one final question.
He knew his would be a good one to go out on
he knew this kind of thing
Olds would a appreciate a good question
unlike that woman who said the thing about the Tampon tax.
What was her point exactly?

Everybody was clapping
good job
congratulations
how exciting
Phoebe's wrists were sore

from where the handcuffs cut in.
She thought about it one more time.
What was her story?
How would she structure it exactly,
face to face?

Who would be the narrator?
Would it be a short story, or a poem? Fiction
or non-fiction?

The grey door before her clicked
and opened. The festival had come
to an end.

She let her story begin.