I was at a poetry reading in Toronto the other night. There was some suspicious looking sushi.
Complimentary Food at a Poetry Reading
“I’m uncomfortable with anonymous
sushi,” I said. “It’s like uncondomed sex,”
he agreed, “with strangers. Might be good,
but you’re never sure if it’s worth the risk.”
The poets all read their lines in a row.
“And I’m suspicious of anonymous
poetry,” I said, but he was too stoned
to hear. “I don’t just want a signature.
I want to know the hands that fashioned it.”