A Poet Apprehended In Church Street Poem by Ray Miller

She catches him up and tells him how much
they all miss that laconic delivery,
enthusing about the open mic
at the Abbey Café of a Thursday.

He remembers clambering up on stage
too early, too late, sentence dependent
on how loud the crowd applauded;
lighting turned down like a thumb.

That utterance of himself being heard,
a piano stuttering down terrace steps;
his mouth dried up and a sideways look
at the bar so reflective and wet.

She says they've started serving alcohol
and the venue is small and intimate;
the iambic rise and fall of her breasts
is blinding him to their pointlessness.