At an old-fashioned poetry reading the audience is polite even when the poetry sucks. At a slam, crowds sometimes hiss and boo. Things aren’t quite that bad tonight, but I’m not surprised when my name is not one of the four second-round winners. Ebony advances and so does a skinny guy called Mike. He looks about twelve but he’s actually twenty. Mike is hilarious. He does a poem about the war between a procrastinator and his conscience. We’re all grabbing for napkins so we don’t spray our drinks everywhere. Karl, the German guy, moves on, even though I don’t think his second poem is that great. Rosie, the fast-talking food girl, is the fourth poet to survive to round three. It’s a relief, in a way, to be able to sit back and listen. The last round is intense. Ebony does a great job with a poem about the pleasures of sleep. I doubt I’m the only one ready for bed by the time she’s done. Even though Karl’s poem about a puppet is really clever, he doesn’t stand a chance, and Ebony winds up being the big winner of the night.
