A Monster Truck Passes the Poetry Reading

And I have to laugh. One of my people—
unmuffled, extreme—disrupts the depth
of the artist’s sad words, and the patio
patrons wear their disgust and disdain
at such interruption, irreverence.
His back window littered with gun
stickers galore, his dual antennas
thrown back by wind, whispered insults
spread like exhaust: Fascist   redneck   illiterate
hick from people who, moments before,
applauded stanzas condemning stereotypes.
They sip their pink and yellow drinks,
wait for the signing so they can apologize
to the writer for our area’s lack of culture.
I listen to distance, smell lingering diesel,
wonder how many hours he spent perfecting his craft.