Deep in his heart, Robert knew that criticism was truly beneficial to he who chooses to exploit it wisely. Wise exploitation, he had learned from his many years of devotion to the poetic art, included the option to dismiss, within reason and with good cause, criticism from which he could gain nothing or that which was clearly malicious, unfounded, or merely a self-promotional exercise by a critic. But still less-than-favorable criticism still rankled him; a least for a period of time.
At the Poetry Night gala event, Robert was still replaying the latest negative review in his mind, in spite of the fact that it had been published well over a month before. He was, for all practical purposes, over it. The critic had even stressed the unique, freshness that he found in Robert's work and that it contained such great potential. Still though, Robert clung to the dismissive, condescending snipes the critic had taken at the heart and soul that Robert had taken such pains to record on the printed page.
Through, what seemed to be a fuzzy, poorly-focused camera shot from an art film, Robert saw the emcee introducing the next reading and was able to just-barely decipher his own name in the garbled monologue that accompanied the vision. Always prepared and always the consummate artist and professional, Robert rarely had problems at readings. Today for some reason, he had no poem.
He simply had nothing to read. He had no book, no manuscript, no notes.
The room was silent. . .
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