“Intermezzo Summer: Observations of an Absurd Writer’s Group” a poem

Intermezzo sunshine, never skimpin’ on the fun times.
Walls white, clean like an Apple Store,
and everybody folds in place like the wings of a paper crane
and everybody logs-in to this multiplayer game.
Pearly eyed poets and wrinkly fingered writers,
rambling, peanut butter and jamming
to soft indie rock, feet tapping, pens snapping
a pair of giant spiders tap dance on our keyboards,
we come together like Power Rangers making the Megazord.

I like all the strange conversations and the symphony of clanging glasses
and the rush of wings of baristas skipping past us.
I hear chimes like I’m hoodwinked and kidnapped
blindfolded, my head’s slapped, and unveiled at the Florida orchestra.
A percussion of moving feet, pastries gifted to granite tables ready to eat,
there’s an espresso machine whirling as the brass section,
and hipsters with erections stroking their beards as the string section.
and there’s that feeling of satisfaction
when a stranger tells you the best part is at the “intermission”
If you get my drift…
and if you do, you gonna hit that shift.

Everything goes slow in here.
Or maybe it’s just us, because these young people seem so fast;
too many Instamodels, too much class, too many young girls showing too much ass.
Hipster women with cool threads, no bras, and big brimmed hats.
White guys with beard stubble, sweet mustaches, and hair slicked back.
Makes me miss decent people with a sensible head on their shoulders
they’re not so young that everything is new and shiny bait
but they aint old either,
when a trend comes along, they know to sip the tea and wait.

Oh man.
Oh jeez.
We just talked about that cringey radio commercial;
you know the one with the guy
with the garbled, snarling, deep voice that sounds like he ate New Jersey
and you can still hear em chewin?
Man I can nevvver understand him.
He talks over that woman at every chance he gets like he’s fighting with his ex.
Can someone tell that dude that talking over women is rude?

Anyway, I miss our regulars.
Every week they bring a solace to me.
You got Maureen McDole, the shady lady, with a heart heavier than gold.
Jon Kile our group’s doe-eyed writer dad,
he can always scare off trouble with a solid A+ joke
that was long on your ear but you know made you glad.
Shelly Wilson, the all killer no filler writer of The Gabber.
She’s candid like a camera and frank like her last name’s Sinatra
and if you’re a funny person you’ll know it
cuz she’s got a
raspy-gaspy laugh.
She’s a writer so she wakes up when NPR does its late night Jazz
Best of all she’s got a bag of sayings that never runs out,
and honestly her honesty is something that we all need, and hopefully it’s not lost on me.
This aint Sarah plain and Tall
cuz next is Tara tiny and smiley, blonde like a daisy
a lady of god between 50 acting jobs,
she’s curious as hell, so fill her with wonder and don’t be a snob.
Across the Pond is Kat Cheshire,
talking with her is always a pleasure, before you know it, you’ll be talkin a while, but use caution or you’ll catch her infectious smile.
Aaaaand then there’s me, Denzel Johnson-Green;
the youngest writer to come on the scene by probably 20 years,
I’m a Black baby from Alaska with a fur coat and patient ears.
Stumbling, bumbling, black, white, and chubby like a penguin.
No snow in town, but you can catch me hanging;
a chilly breeze plays around me
like a Chinese flute sangin.

They’re my Writer’s Group, see?
And I feel out of the loop when I miss a week.
I’ve got four part time jobs
but I’d chop one off
if I couldn’t get Thursday mornings off.

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