Writers Anonymous

I say, “It’s like ‘Welcome to the real world,’ you know?” And six heads nod in agreement. “But what are you going to do? Like weaving words into a tapestry of everything that makes us human Is a noble goal, But not quite enough.” If any of us were openly religious There would be a chorus of “amens” And the slightly claustrophobic sound of bodies moving and feet stamping. But we’re not. So instead, the room is filled with the scratching of pens And the sound of one hand clapping. That’s enough. The words I chose prompted the gliding of ink across a page And that is better than a thousand cheers And pats on the back. “And when someone asks That one question. What do you write about? Once, just once, I want to say, What do you live about? Because their silence would be my answer.” I wave my hand Finished 67 spoken words, more than my usual, here In this group of (writers) Authors And I sit. For once, no one asks me anything. Because I’ve just bared my soul with 67 words.