February 8, 2014

Event coordinator Alice Blant paces the length of the vast hangar making one final inspection of the 1000 hammocks. Alignment and spacing? Check. Cords properly tense? Check. Pillows plumped and placed perfectly? Check. Fringe on each hammock hanging with nary a tangle? Check.

“All right, Blandings. Open the door!” shouts Alice Blant.

Blandings manipulates the control mechanism. The doors slide apart, allowing the massive wave of poets to surge in. Scrambling, fighting, and kicking, poets fling themselves helter and yon to claim hammocks. All is quiet in what amounts to no more than half a moment. The monthly meeting of the Recumbent Poets Society is well and truly under way, way being the lower case poet perched in a cherry picker high above the hammocks.

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