Broken monkey bridges,
a discarded flute case, a
squeaky Gatorade bottle.
Screeching metal moans irreverence
as a young fiction author stands,
speaks with a tremble, microphone necessary.
Excellent resonance would facilitate
unamplified words, but this place clanks around
and sops up sounds in piles of waves.
People viewing the reading turn their heads
towards the sound, the dominant ear, often right.
Those who need the benefit of a loudspeaker
scrunch foreheads in ill comprehension,
plot holes gaping more by the minute.
“The honey badger plunged its muzzle into the beehive
and deployed its tongue, perfectly suited for this task.
A lucky creature, this badger is immune to bee stings,
which makes its job a climb in the park.
Aaron watched all of this and envied the shrewd creature
for its daredevilry. ‘Cynthia gave my ring back,
what the hell? What’d I do, seriously?’ His monologue
was outside of anyone’s earshot, and he immediately
questioned his sanity.”
The audience heard, at best, half of this, furrowing
brows in obvious consternation, magnified by feedback
from both the cheap microphone and industrial noise.