Why I Hate Storytellers
Professional storytellers creep me out,
their vests and ribbons, long skirts, picturesque hats,
their shouts and whispers, hands fluttering like bats,
relentless eye contact staring me into squirm.
They’re the Siegfrieds, Roys of story, cracking whips,
forcing sullen stories to sit up,
briefly paw air, snarling as they leap
through rings of fire, landing on heavy paws.
Good stories sneak up, they’re glimpsed, overheard
from the booth behind you at the diner,
from the back seat, six hours into the trip,
on the radio, half-over when you tune in.
Real storytellers are quiet, even reluctant.
Casual is their camouflage. After a long
march, supper cooked, night coming down,
the conversation passed around like a pipe,
one voice starts ambling down a path which forks
in unexpected directions and you feel
the great beast purring next to you in the dark,
its bristly chin on your shoulder, its breath in your ear.
