There needs to be an exhibition of sorts
One with my poetry in it
Who will do it though?
My preference, F.T.L.O.
Those guys know what they are doing
B.Y.O.B, a merry flow about the place
I swan about the studio with a hand in my pocket, waiting to hear regards people’s perceptions
See if they go about doing the same, putting a hand in their own pocket, make something of an exception
The most important thing isn’t the sales, rather an array of poems on the walls that makes each and every one of them hum along
Even as much as sing
This needs to be done oh so well
A banter about the place, conversation at ninety
An exhibit that has me taking down the poems the following day, hungover and feeling incredibly swell
Sunshine will of course help bring the crowd outside, let the words work their magic while they bathe back inside
That’s it, my offer to F.T.L.O
I really don’t know, they ain’t biased so my ‘talent’ has to shout it from the rooftops
Maybe then this particular stepping stone will over time place my book of poetry on a book shop shelf