Comrades She calls us comrades as she reads from her latest little book of poesy I listen as best I can but feel little kinship with her or her words I have always imagined poetry as saying necessary things in a strong and honest language and she reads and reads and reads and I hear nothing and am bored The others perhaps don’t feel as I do or they are better at hiding it They smile and nod and clap when they should I decide there is something wrong with them or with me I give myself the benefit of the doubt and am wishing I were at the bar down the street where the beers costs 2 dollars and the streetwalkers fight in the alleyway outside This is a strong and honest language of its own and much more interesting than anything going on here.