At The Edge Of The Crowd

The Slam Poet signed his poem.
I could not read his finger and hand movements.

As far as I knew he communicated in Etruscan.
The poem must have been fathomless to the judges.

All of us, judges included, turned our heads
to follow his longing gaze.

I surmise that boy is in love with a girl
who is the only bar stool member wrapped in attention.

Upon conclusion, she leapt to her feet
and applauded, which signaled the audience to applaud.

It was not the thunderous applause that caused
dry-markers on white-boards to squeak tens.

All but one of the judges awarded him nine point something.
That one last judge awarded him a zero.

Claimed his hand movements to be props.
Complained about his lack of iambic pentameter.

After booing, we showered that judge with orange peels
and suggested he migrate with the geese.


copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney

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