You stand on the low stage, hand in jeans pocket.
I get the feeling you are at ease with your unease,
If that makes any sense.
You throw your poems out to the waiting crowd.
Their appreciative laughter may not be what you're looking for,
But you are reaching them.
You seem to have, at least, a little, come to terms with yourself,
This poem isn't finished (are they ever?)
But then neither are you (thank God)
or I.
I saw Jan Hardy once, more than twenty years ago, at a bar named Maxwell's in Morgantown, West Virginia. I wrote this poem that night. The bar is still there as of February 2004, and Hardy is now a recognized poet (Out Here Flying) and editor (Sister/Stranger: Lesbians Loving Across the Lines).
©1983, 2004 Alan P. Scott. All rights reserved.
Last updated February 20, 2004
Contact me:
ascott@pacifier.com