In which Your Humble Blogger answers the question: Who the @#!$ tries to write poetry while stuck in a crowded convention center?
The crowd deepens. We take the bait.
We hope for more but slouch in place.
And people age idling in wait.
Each hour's a new line on my face.
* * *
Many people put a date on their writings as they jot them down in their notebooks. (Actually, who am I kidding? Many people probably type their stuff directly on a computer and have the date stamped on the files as soon as they click "save.") I don't, so while I remember the general time of year and often the month I wrote something, I only have a few poems for which I can recall what the date was when I wrote them.
I dug this out of the notebook not because it's particularly good -- it's not -- but because I remember not only the exact date of its creation but also the exact spot where I wrote it:
A year ago today, on a Wednesday, I was one of hundreds upon hundreds of people, many lovely, some possessing questionable hygiene, packed into a meeting hall on the second floor of a convention center, waiting for the moment when I could join them in rushing downstairs and bursting onto the floor, where I could easily be parted with most of my hard-earned money.
I miss Comic Con a little.