The Poet stands upon the partially lit stage with the audience below still pondering his words that still ring in the empty spaces. He speaks with one hand grasping the mic, pressing it close to his mouth. "This next poem is my last and it's only one word." Staring at the shoes of the front row of rigid people, he lets that sink in for a moment. "Digestion." A residual hum falls over the audience as their inaudible expressions of curiosity becomes audible together. The Poet slowly looks up from the shoes to look at the thoughtful looking faces attached, just staring until they've accepted the poem is over, and begins to walk off staring at his own shoes. Stopping mid stride, the Poet cups his hands and yells, "It means nothing!" The audience begins to applaud.