6 Poetry at a party

By the time I get to the house, it is dusk. Do you know what dusk is? It is a very magical time. Afternoon becomes evening. The very last bit of sunlight fades away. The lights on the street poles turn on, one by one. The stars in the sky do the same. Dog people walk their dogs. Cat people look for can openers. Work is over, but the day is not. It is a time of transition, a time of change.

And, I learn, it is time to get ready for a party, a soiree, a shindig.

“Good! I’m glad you’re home, Stig” Oliver says. “You are going to be a star!”

That’s right! The light of my star has turned on. But how does he know that already?

“We are having a big party!”

For me, I wonder? Already?

“We are having a big party with many guests. We want you to read a poem,” Oliver explains. “But first, please, help me with the food. Help me with the drinks. We must get ready.”

That is when I understand something: The party is not for me, and Oliver does not know about my news yet.

“There is something I have to tell you, Oliver,” I say.

“Later, Stig. Later. We have guests coming. I have to get dressed.”

Oliver disappears into his bedroom. I try to talk to Liam, but he can’t hear me. He is wearing his headphones. He is choosing music for the party.

I take out big plates from the cupboard, and I fill them with sweet and salty snacks: nuts and olives, figs and dates. I add a bowl of crackers and another plate with vegan cheese. I gather plates, napkins, and utensils. I even find a fancy tablecloth. It has pictures of French poodles with city maps. It seems appropriate. Then the guests begin to arrive.

Who do I see first? Cousin Abdi. He plays the drums. He is cool.

But then I open the door and see Kensho Holfina. Kensho Holfina is another agent. He is also the rival of my agent, Fiona Ocean.

“Ah, Stig,” says Kensho. “Are you still writing sad haiku? Are you still writing those silly odes to an Idaho potato … or some smart part of a golf cart … or some other bo-o-o-o-oring thing? That is the kind of writing that nobody likes to read, Stig. You can trust me about this. Now bring me something to drink, will you? Bring Kensho something to drink.”

Kensho is one of those people. He likes to hear his own name. So he says his own name — often. Instead of saying “I went to some fancy restaurant last night,” he says “Kensho went to some fancy restaurant last night.” Ha! Maybe Kensho is why people think Portland is weird.

I growl at him. Grr! I want to nip him in the knee. I want to bite him in the behind. Then I see Liam and Oliver, so I bite my tongue instead. In other words, I stay quiet. But I secretly hope that Kensho Holfina will get what he deserves.

Liam plays music. Oliver serves food. I pour drinks. The party is a blur. Then Liam says, “My dear friends, please sit down. We are ready to begin.”

I am not the only person to do something in this show. First, cousin Abdi plays the drums. They are so loud that they make my heart skip a beat.

Then Lorena, a neighbor from upstairs, dances. She does a tap dance. She does a tap dance from her apartment upstairs. Tappa, tappa, tappa. Everyone watches the ceiling. There is nothing to see on the ceiling, but we imagine Lorena dancing in her apartment above our heads. Maybe she wears two tutus, too.

Quang shows his invisible paintings of Mr. and Mrs. Borgen-Yorgen. Everyone says “mmm” and “interesting.”

Alma is next. She plays her ukulele and sings a song about a pie in the sky. “What goes up must come down …” I don’t pay attention until Alma throws a lemon pie up in the air. The lemon pie flies across the room and comes down on the face of Kensho Holfina. Ha!

Finally, it is my turn to perform. I am excited. I am scared. I begin to read from a blank piece of paper:

The future won’t come
when we make too many plans.
It meanders away.

 

The future is quick
when we are only dreaming
and never doing.

 

The future is now.
It is always becoming
our present today.

 

Make plans and share dreams
to make your future come true,
but be ready now.

The room is silent. I look around. I add one more thought:

Zip, zip, zippity doo.

Everyone begins to clap. They clap louder and louder. They stand up and cheer.

“Stig! That is wonderful! You are a wonderful poet!”

I guess some people like poems to rhyme.