By Hannah Deneve
I’m surrounded by a sea of grey and white, Clothed with old turtle-neck sweaters and khaki pants. Well-worn leather bags at their feet, Most likely possessing spearmints, pills, some spare change, old receipts. Their essentials. Thick-soled shoes, paired with tall tube socks. Thin-framed square spectacles adorn their faces, Vision obscured from the blinding overhead glares. We’re seated in old, drab-green suede chairs, Oily brown stains cover their plush arms. They’re comfortable, I think. I settle myself in, preparing to be dazzled. Humorous diction fills the tight room’s air, Bouncing off the curved, high ceiling, Reaching our open ears. The lovely words act as a lullaby to the aging crowd. Heads begin nodding, soft sounds of sleep are then heard. Their attention now lost. Refusing to be discouraged, the poet continues on. Fighting for his voice to be heard, Fighting to defend the countless hours spent writing these beautiful words. He, unfortunately, will not win this battle. The old man in the balcony, heavy lidded, nods off.