For six years, Jeannie made baked goods for her husband's poetry night. When Roby and his three burly friends gathered around her tiny kitchen table, she placed a platter of warm scones or muffins or cookies in the center. They placed their whiskey glasses and steno pads in their spots, and tore into the treats as if all the words they'd need for the night were hidden somewhere deep in the dough. Later, Jeannie would clean up crumbs and finds discarded drafts, wadded up pieces of steno paper, littered on her floor like the trash they were. She always sneaked a peek, and she got to know a little about each poet's obsessions.
For instance, Joshua wrote a lot about mermaids. At least, he wrote a lot and threw away a lot of poems about mermaids. Julian wrote about gardening tools. Abraham wrote about his youthful travels. And Roby, the man to whom she pledged her life, abandoned poems about the futility of baking.
He kept the poems about his disappointment in pastries.
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