Workshop

I sit at the center,

the red metal stool

carries my weight.

the girl in blue stares

at me with tiger eyes.

I face the other side, drag

the red metal stool as

it screeches—

as though my thoughts are

wailing.

The man in eyeglasses

shouts, “what’s the central image?”

the girl in blue nods,

not once

but twice

as the man hammers

my poems

on the table.

I face them

carrying

my own weight,

he hurls the sheets

up in the air,

Our eyes witness

as my syllables

fall

like loosened

leaves of a tree.