A Group Of Self-Published Authors Hold An Open Day At Their Village Hall (Poetry)

They all looked so horribly earnest
the room so oppressively quiet
through the window the sun was a furnace
the books on display a dull diet.

We tiptoed around hardly daring
to risk conversation or raise
expectations (by now some were glaring
while others seemed locked in a daze).

The silence hung thick and unbroken
we circled like bees in a jar
unable to offer a token
of interest since coming so far ...

But the titles were dreadfully boring
reflecting the authors themselves
and (in truth) there could be no ignoring
none would find a new home on our shelves.

Then more visitors — lively — invaded
a diversionary laugh and a cough
the event now a fraction less jaded
we were glad of the chance to slope off.

How heartless we were — never thinking
the deep disappointment that came
with hope like the sun slowly sinking
and no score at the end of their game.