I say,
“It’s like ‘Welcome to the real world,’ you know?”
And six heads nod in agreement.

“But what are you going to do?
Like weaving words into a tapestry of everything that makes us human
Is a noble goal,
But not quite enough.”

If any of us were openly religious
There would be a chorus of “amens”
And the slightly claustrophobic sound of bodies moving and feet stamping.
But we’re not.
So instead, the room is filled with the scratching of pens
And the sound of one hand clapping.

That’s enough.

The words I chose prompted the gliding of ink across a page
And that is better than a thousand cheers
And pats on the back.

“And when someone asks
That one question.
What do you write about?
Once, just once, I want to say,
What do you live about?
Because their silence would be my answer.”

I wave my hand
Finished
67 spoken words, more than my usual, here
In this group of
(writers)
Authors
And I sit.

For once, no one asks me anything.
Because I’ve just bared my soul with 67 words.