kurt vonnegut

Low-Brow Poetry

The stories flowed
at the Low-Brow,
along with $2 PBR,
in a horrible symphony.

Kurt Vonnegut flipping off the VIPs
as he left, stiff drink in hand,
escorted by a dazed young writer
who now idolized him on a new plane.

Then there was another night
when
 all the poets almost starved.
“Yes, we’re the hospitality crew,”
we admitted, meekly, as we struck out.

It wasn’t even midnight on a Friday,
in this embarrassing one-horse town.
We drug them in tow looking for sustenance,
finally collapsing at the only venue still open.

Rita Dove, gracious but clearly famished;
Robert Bly first asking, then demanding,
“Where’s my drink – do you know who I am?”
As the bartender, non-plussed, got in his face.

We hung in there and were all soon munching
on a seemingly endless buffet of bad bar food:
tri-color tortilla chips and a near-rancid spinach dip.
As another successful poetry festival came to a conclusion.