poets meeting
you, reeking of some smoke I am too naive to be able to identify when you say you write poetry I know I can't ignore you anymore and it grates wrong when we all sit silent and you go back to the door I'm relieved when someone has a gift card for food and you are persuaded to take it you scrawl on the booklet of poetry before you hand it over and then ask if you can recite another and as I am leaving, one more and it catches me, turns me back "the shadowlands" because life is offered and you seem to want it but you fade away, trapped in your mists of shadow