the interval (a reading, as read)

Read in the foyer, by the kiosk, Thursday. On the back of a free ticket. The room's part in brackets.

the queue / is four deep / and the kettle is thinking // the queue / is five deep / and the kettle is still thinking // (somebody laughs, which is the right place) // a coat on the rack / with a gap where a button was / somebody went home cold / somebody went home lighter // (that rhymed. it wasn't meant to. I'll leave it.) // the bell goes / and you go back in / to the same play / with a warm cup / which is different

I was fourth in the queue for this one, which is the best place: close enough to hear it, far enough back that the kettle is still thinking when it gets to that line. The man in fifth place said he had never thought of the queue as being four deep before, and now he would think of nothing else. The lady in first place said it was the coat bit she liked.

Stub didn't say anything after. Stub never does. I had my tea and went back in for act two, which I have seen.

That was my kettle, petal, and it was thinking, I'll give you that, it's an old one and it likes to take its time and I'd never rush it. And it was the green coat with the gap, and I've still got the button in the jar.

The second biscuit tin is the one by the till if anybody wants one with their poem. “Mind the moths.” on your way up, as always.

I review the interval only rarely; it is not, strictly, the show. I make an exception.

The poem is three stars; it repeats itself with purpose, it admits its own rhyme, which I have never seen a poet do, and it stops before it explains, which almost none of them manage. The kettle is four stars. I have never given a kettle four stars. It's the waiting, probably.