To the students sitting in chairs

To the students sitting in chairs listening to the poet standing on a chair, thank you. A performance without an audience is a tree that falls in a forest, and some words are meant to be heard. This is where you come in.

Sometimes a writer is moved to share. When I welcomed you to the stage by announcing, "The chair is open. Do we have any takers?" you either contemplated, cajoled, or cringed. You felt the rumbling at your table. The window was closed, but you felt a breeze. You might have turned to your partner, locked eyes, and given them the nod. Or perhaps you averted your gaze to avoid your own recruitment. I tried to interpret the whites of your eyes, the sideways glance, or the clenched fist. But I'm basic. As soon as anyone broke through the silence and walked to the front, I cheered. 

Thanks to you for cheering, too.

There are also writers who don't need to say it out loud. In case you need reminding, brilliance can exist in silence. I have read the black and white letters that fill your pages, somewhere between 5 lines and 500, and I don't need the audio feature to send me on a multi-dimensional journey around your world. You've explored the cans and the cannots, what is dear and what is doomed. Poetry or prose, line by line. Although the speaking chair was open, your seat was just fine. You turned your head toward someone else, but you were not forgotten.

Social norms call for us to applaud the speaker. This post is my standing ovation to you.