Issue 6
JENNY WALKER – NORTH EAST
SIMON SAYS
He stood against a white background
as wide and high as the room itself
and spoke to us, pausing to sip
from the slim glass bottle on the stand
with a quick tilt, or stroke his thumb along
the edge of the plastic folder, slippery
with his poems, slipped into see-through
wallets we longed to ask him about –
were they from Works, or another major
stationary retailer? And the sticky pink
tabs peeking up, were they bought
from a Smiths like the one down the road?
He told us he wrote on graph-paper,
but never after 1pm or in the lounge;
and once he typed a poem onto hotmail
though he sees that as an aberration,
probably. The attentive among us
jotted it down anyway and a plucky
fellow in the front row asked him
whether he was partial to feta or brie?
It was only when he answered camembert
that I noticed his rubber-soled shoes
leaving the carpet, lifting up into the air
like winged sandals or holy slippers
and hovering there as I raised my hand.