The Courage of a Poet
by Nina Bayer
He
stands in front of our small group of writers, staring
at the note cards in his hands. He is too nervous to pace
or even bend his knees, and so he thrusts his left hand
into his pocket and then his right, shuffles his note cards
then shuffles them again, and never looks up to see if
we are still there. He has come to teach. We have come
to learn. And so, as he begins to speak—softly,
slowly—we strain to hear him in
the awkward silence of the room. The information he shares
is good—we take notes, we ask questions—but
his presentation and interaction is painful.
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