Napkin Novels 2014

And Twitter posts, limited to just 140 characters, make every letter, word and punctuation mark play a vital role in a Twitter poem.

So here are our picks for the cream of the crop!

My husband’s frequent flyer status bumped me up to 1st class coming home from LA. My Edna St. Vincent Millay Book in my lap; I closed my eyes, waited for takeoff. Someone sat next to me, said “my high school girlfriend loved Millay.”

I opened my eyes and saw Steve Martin beside me. “Hello,” he smiled, then faced forward. “Yeah, hi.” I tried to pretend I wasn’t star-struck. “What was her name?” I indicated the book. “Your girlfriend?” “Ah. Margaret.” “I haven’t read this since high school myself. Looks like I dog-eared lots of pages back then.” I opened to page 90. A sonnet. He nodded. We rumbled into the air. “So why that one?” “A break-up I suppose.” I said, skimming familiar words. “Noel probably.” I remember Noel wearing green high-top Converse, jean shorts. “So what do you do?”, he asked , and I wondered why he was so friendly. I flushed, like a first date. “I’m a mom,” I said, figuring he would decide he need not waste energy talking. I quickly added, “And I write theatre reviews for a small newspaper.” “How many kids?” “Two boys.” The plane lurched, and I braced. The flight attendant offered drinks. “Scotch and soda” I said. He smiled, turned to the attendent, “two,” he said. So what else do you read?” Maybe I reminded him of someone else?

“Well..” I had to goad my tongue in my mouth, as it was afraid to perform, afraid to disappoint. “Actually, I recently read Shopgirl.” I looked toward the window expecting him to be irritated. But instead he turned toward me, wide open. “And?”

And Twitter posts, limited to just 140 characters, make every letter, word and punctuation mark play a vital role in a Twitter poem.

So here are our picks for the cream of the crop!

My husband’s frequent flyer status bumped me up to 1st class coming home from LA. My Edna St. Vincent Millay Book in my lap; I closed my eyes, waited for takeoff. Someone sat next to me, said “my high school girlfriend loved Millay.”

I opened my eyes and saw Steve Martin beside me. “Hello,” he smiled, then faced forward. “Yeah, hi.” I tried to pretend I wasn’t star-struck. “What was her name?” I indicated the book. “Your girlfriend?” “Ah. Margaret.” “I haven’t read this since high school myself. Looks like I dog-eared lots of pages back then.” I opened to page 90. A sonnet. He nodded. We rumbled into the air. “So why that one?” “A break-up I suppose.” I said, skimming familiar words. “Noel probably.” I remember Noel wearing green high-top Converse, jean shorts. “So what do you do?”, he asked , and I wondered why he was so friendly. I flushed, like a first date. “I’m a mom,” I said, figuring he would decide he need not waste energy talking. I quickly added, “And I write theatre reviews for a small newspaper.” “How many kids?” “Two boys.” The plane lurched, and I braced. The flight attendant offered drinks. “Scotch and soda” I said. He smiled, turned to the attendent, “two,” he said. So what else do you read?” Maybe I reminded him of someone else?

“Well..” I had to goad my tongue in my mouth, as it was afraid to perform, afraid to disappoint. “Actually, I recently read Shopgirl.” I looked toward the window expecting him to be irritated. But instead he turned toward me, wide open. “And?”