It’s open mic night at the bar, and 

there are twenty poets performing. 

The poets meet in the back alley

to discuss what they write about.

The first writes about her power.

The second writes about money.

He slings an arm over the first,

saying ‘this girl gets it!’

The third writes about his fear of spiders.

The fourth, who writes about courage,

draws wriggling fingers up his spine,

taunting. He earns the title ‘Dr. Heckle’.

His friends also give him this title.

The fifth and sixth write about love, 

yet the sixth only keeps her gaze on the ground.

The seventh, in a large overcoat that swallows her frame,

writes about eating disorders. 

The eighth writes in her native tongue, 

and when she speaks, everyone falls in love. 

They do not care what she said. 

The ninth writes about his love for God,

and God's love for him.

The tenth, who glares at the ninth, writes about 

growing up gay in a conservative town. 

The eleventh writes about family road trips in the summer,

leaning out the window to let her hair flow in the wind. 

Her hair is noticeably cut to her ears now.

The twelfth writes about her father,

and the thirteenth writes about her mother.

They’re not related, but, they both know

about that sinking feeling on a warm

Christmas Eve. They’re going on a date next Sunday. 

The fourteenth simply quotes Nietzche, and, 

when asked, says he doesn’t write, no, he composes. 

The fifteenth is noticeably younger, and 

writes about her grandmother.

The sixteenth writes about death, and 

notices when the fifteenth wipes her eyes. 

The seventeenth writes about being a warrior.

The eighteenth, who fiddles with an old ring on

his middle finger, writes about the safety of being unseen. 

The nineteenth writes about her cat, Oliver. 

And finally, the twentieth… writes about poets. 

Poets who are afraid of spiders and afraid of love.

Poets who flinch at death, and speak in what 

others would call ‘tongues’.

Poets who do not understand women, 

and bother their secretaries back at the office. 

Poets who only quote other poets, 

who call themselves poets because they 

took a college course on it six years ago. 

The poets are called inside, and it is time to perform. 

They all walk onstage, single file,

and stand shoulder to shoulder. 

They glance at each other.

One by one, they walk off the stage, 

until only the twentieth is left. 

-

It’s open mic night at the bar, and 

there is one poet performing. 

There are nineteen more people

in the crowd than usual that night. 

The poet begins to speak:

“There are nineteen types of people,” 

This is a new poem. 

The crowd knows this.

The crowd listens anyway.