On the way to Atwood

February 14th, the plan was to see
Margaret Atwood speak.
We ate dinner and
I donned my literary garb
and all the way driving to campus
I sported a heroin-grin
in anticipation of what I call
"a Canadian literary icon."

"It's going to be big,"
I said, and he just chuckled
at my saucer eyes
and reverence.

We parked, walked,
and he said,
"I don't even know what she wrote,
Margaret Laurence."
I chide him: AT-WOOD
NOT LAU-RENCE
and he laughs sheepishly
while I observe
that Laurence is dead
and that a talk by her
would be disconcerting
as I'd imagine her body
would be in some stage of rot.

In Mac Hall there's a crowd,
but the gates are closed
and, while confused,
an usher regretfully informs
"We are at capacity"
because if a fire were to start -
which I half-wish it had
(for it would bring Atwood out!) -
the audience would potentially die
burning, an oh-not-quite-so-poetic
death.

We stand there with the news,
I with the weight of it,
he uncomprehending why this
Atwood event can't be attended
by a standing audience
like they do in concerts.

He disappears and I try to find
consolation in talking to others
who have also been rejected.
A few minutes later,
he comes back says he sneaked in
but that they kicked him out:
"How bad do you want to get in?"
"Not bad enough to create
civil disturbance."

And there it was,
the whole evening,
as we turned our backs
and headed home,
he to play clarinet,
while I sit in the sofa corner
reading and trying to swallow
bitter disappointment.

But it was the 14th,
so the night ended
with us sandwiched
watching the horse show
off CBC online,
drinking tea,
and I felt luckier
than those who got in
and saw Margaret Atwood.