An abandoned, derelict building.

One poet, one musician,

Performing for a crowd of thirty, out doors, against a mild and averted protest.

Thirty people: walkers, cyclists, other poets, artists, ordinary folk whose lives some people know nothing about, some who came intentionally, some who heard and arrived and stayed.

One dog.

End-of-day light making the old rocks glow from within.

Words. Lots of precisely chosen words from the pen and then the mouth of the poet, articulately articulated.

Sorry, it was tonight. You missed it.

-by Joan Beecroft



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