Deb, that sounds awesome. Now I want to know what other singer-songwriters have been proposed. Good luck with the story -- you picked a perfect song. And hey, whatever happened to the "four clowns of the apocalypse" story, by the way?

Yay Kristin! (share the poem, share the poem...)

That's good, Kristin. A more personal meaningful encounter:
“I was in a wheelchair for a while,” the guy in the suit says. Oh, fabulous, I think, one of those...that’s what I get for blowing off studying to watch Clinton’s motorcade. Somebody who couldn’t walk for six. Whole. Weeks. So, you know, he understands me. Might as well get this over with. “Really?” I say, hardly caring if I hide my boredom or not. “How long?” “Three years. From nine to twelve. Hemophilia.” Wow, that is an actual story. Much better(or worse) than the racquetball knee I’d expected.” That must have been...hard,” I say,keeping my lifelong vow never to say “You poor thing!” ever. He’s an attorney...his name is something Biblical, James, maybe. He insists that I have to take his “get-close-to-Clinton” ticket. I thank him and resolve never to overlook people’s stories again.

erika, that really captures that moment. I can see how it would be perception-altering.

Yay Kristin! (share the poem, share the poem...)

t shy smile

Okay, here it is (mandatory disclaimer: this isn't my best poem, just one I felt comfortable enough to send out)...

4:55 at the therapist’s office

i am in the waiting room staring
at a framed waterfall and last month’s magazines,
pretending i don’t see the others
we don’t meet each other’s eyes here,
we pretend we don’t know how to say “hello” or
“how are you doing today”
(we know that answer already)
we pretend that we are here coincidently,
wandered in off the street accidentally
and just haven’t decided to leave yet

behind those doors we will become
abandoned children, jilted lovers
women who keep marrying their fathers
and men who want to kill them,
and when we leave, we will become teachers and lawyers
custodians, waiters, cops,
but in this waiting room we sit between two selves
pretending we are alone
in this place where we are all strangers,
even to ourselves.

Kristin, that rocks.

The stanza that becomes "behind those doors" is one of the truest things I have ever read, and it leads perfectly into "where we are all strangers, even to ourselves". Which is a kick-ass way to end it.

Loving-it applause

I get the feeling it's more about getting the poets to buy the inevitable anthology than it is about talent--but I'm still happy.

What contest is it? Not all of them are as bad as all that.

Thanks. I'm terribly self-conscious about my poetry in a way I'm not about my prose. It's nice to get a little affirmation.

I took out the stanzas because they had in the proof they sent me, and I looked at both versions and decided I like it as one stanza instead. What do you think?

that first line should have a lowercase i, but quick-edit won't let me.

For future reference, you can foil the quick-edit by starting your line with a dummy tag like t /i .

And that's a nice poem, Kristin. It sets up a really cool image, not so much visual but mental and situational. It's simple and to the point.

Simpler way to fool it is to put a space before the lower case i starting the line.

fixed. thanks