I once hosted a fantastically embarrassing poetry event at a bar in Uxbridge, Ontario. Even though—by the providence of being in the same MFA cohort—I’d secured an incredible poet to read, no one came except my mother. It was a Sunday afternoon and the venue didn’t even have patrons at the time. A woman wandered in off the street and in a promising show of support after surveying the sad scene, vowed to return with more people. I can’t remember if she ever did. I was so anxious that parts of the afternoon are a blur.
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