In Which I Take An Inadvertent Step Backwards into My Poetic Past

A friend of mine, Leeroy Berlin, has had a poem published here and after reading it I thought, "Hmm...I've had a similar experience." and wrote up a quick response, which I shall now share here.

What are you working on?

It is the polite question to ask
at this event, once a year when
under a Christmas excuse
we gather in the name of Poetry
and wear little black dresses
and drink red wine, and I stand
the lone writer of lowly fiction,
drinking a beer.
And they ask it,
of course
and I answer,
of course
but not how they expect:
“Mystery novel.” I say, “A serial.”
They slip away, afraid it’s catching.
It’s the truth, in a way,
The mystery is language, the way it slips through
outstretched fingers and cupped palms equally,
They way sometimes it cannot be found
and other times,
no matter how hard I try,
it cannot be avoided.