Who Meet for a Conference on Poetry Island

So, yes, they all came, they all come
and he thought, she thinks,
without me it won’t be complete,
like the light it won’t be lit,
the match won’t burn, and the sun, the sun,
and he, she thinks, might imagine
they were all males, all the centuries before,
we were few and far between, and he,
he also, about prerogatives, degrees, diplomas, prizes,
recognitions, and oh yes, publications.
They bring big stacks, volumes, dog-eared,
loose, disconnected, cover-less, only evidence
of corporeality amongst them,
only a few shades more of indifference,
that they don’t really care, it’s make-believe.
But still, they sort themselves,
first by height, hair color, by style even,
the last known position before they died,
before they sat, anonymous, amongst these shadows,
every shape, color, size of nose, indications of origin.
All these unknown qualities, all these quantifications
that could not rationally be justified, we’re losing it, they thought,
but now, finally, some organizer, there’s always one in a crowd,
like on a train stuck between stations, the lights dim,
and “everyone stay calm,” he says, or “it’s time to do this, or that,” he says she says,
but now, here, it’s harder, and all try to emote,
all try in a cacophonous swirl, in a multi-pudding-pie of languages,
(there’s just too many to get it straight), and occasionally
one shrugs and petulantly thinks, we all came here to celebrate.