Dead on the Page

I have dragged my chair
Out of line to peek through
Towering heads on green
Bean necks to watch the mouse
Man read his poems in the quiet
Breeze that is his own echo.
I am curled tight, clutching
My knees to my lips, while
My friend of the long legs
Stretches them in the absence
Of my proper place. Together
We struggle against sleep
In the warm wind of voice,
Lulled into the invulnerable nakedness
Of an unthreatened audience,
Barely registering the touch
Of the dead poet of the page lapping
Flaccidly around our calves.