Stage Fright
i.m. Homero Espaillat
“I gotta take a pill before I read.”
“What the hell are you taking?” “Valium,
so terrified when I perform, I need
to calm myself for fear the Kingdom come.”
“Surely you have a flask. Tell me you have!”
begs a great poet in the parking lot,
paralyzed, bleeding. Palliative salve
pops from my glove box, and he swigs a tot.
“They’re in their underwear and owe you money,
but know you are no hundred dollar bill,”
said Rhina’s father. Let your smile be sunny,
never fall down, however great the thrill
for all who come to hear a poet rage.
There is a sink not far behind the stage.
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