Apprehension
She catches him up and tells him how muchthey all miss that laconic delivery,
enthusing about the open mic
at the Abbey Café of a Thursday.
He remembers clambering up on stage
too early, too late, the night hanging on
how loud the crowd was applauding,
or lighting turned down like a thumb.
That utterance of himself being heard,
a piano stuttering down terrace steps;
his mouth dried up and a sideways look
at the bar so reflective and wet.
She says they’ve started serving beer
and the venue is small and intimate;
the iambic rise and fall of her breasts
is blinding him to their pointlessness.
Poetry by Ray Miller
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Editors' choiceWritten on 2025-11-21 at 10:08
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