A year ago, my neighbor overheard me talking about reading poetry at an open mic.
“I write poetry,” he said. “I should go read sometime. I don’t have a working computer. I need to type up the poems.”
“You don’t need to type them up to read,” I said.
I told him about a few readings in town where he could share his stuff — at a couple of bars, a library, an art gallery, a senior-citizen apartment building.
“I’ve never done it before. I’m a little nervous about it.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “All levels of talent there!”
This evening, we crossed paths on the stairs.
“I read at the library today. It wasn’t so bad. It’s the fourth Thursday of every month.”
He’s 70 years old.
I’ll have to check it out.