There's a whole poem at the bottom of this page.

It's twenty minutes — Not a whole evening of poetry. Usually three or four readers, twenty minutes each, with a break in the middle that most of the room spends at the bar
You can leave — At the break, or before it. Nobody minds and, honestly, nobody notices. Sitting through something you aren't enjoying helps no one in the room
Nobody will ask what you thought — Not at the door and not afterwards. Say something if you want to. Slipping out without speaking to anybody is an entirely normal way to attend
You don't have to understand all of it — Nobody does, including the people who wrote it. Liking the sound of something you couldn't explain is a completely legitimate way to listen
It's free or a few pounds — And the few pounds is nearly always the room rather than the poets. If that's a problem, say so — there is almost always a way round it and asking costs nothing
Most of the room came alone — It is the least intimidating audience you will ever sit in, because everybody in it is slightly nervous about something

It is not a book — Twenty-eight pages, stapled through the spine, printed in a run of a hundred and fifty. When they have gone there generally isn't a reprint
Why so short — Because that is how many poems were finished. Padding a pamphlet out to book length is how you end up with a book that has eleven good poems in it
Where the money goes — The printer, mostly. A pamphlet at this price makes about two pounds a copy, which is normal, and saying so is better than implying otherwise
Postage costs more than you'd think — For something this thin. That is the stiff envelope, and it is worth it — a folded pamphlet is a ruined one
Libraries and schools — Free, on request, with no proof of anything asked for. Send an address and it goes in the post
Bookshops — Sale or return, small quantities, delivered by hand locally. Get in touch rather than ordering through a distributor, because there isn't one

What it costs — The authors' society recommended rate where there is a budget. It is published, and I would much rather you looked it up than took my word for what it says
If there's no budget — Say so first rather than last. Community events, libraries and schools get a yes far more often than anybody expects, and the conversation is shorter when it starts there
About "exposure" — It is a real thing at the very start and stops being one quite quickly. If you can't pay, saying that plainly is fine — it is the dressing-up of it that irritates people
Travel — On top, booked by me, standard class, receipted. No argument about a fee has ever actually been about the train
What you get — Twenty minutes, an introduction written out for whoever is hosting, and a sound check done before the doors open rather than during them
What I need — A microphone if the room needs one, a glass of water, and the running order the week before instead of on the night

At a wedding or a funeral — Yes. Always yes, no permission needed, no fee, and you do not have to write and ask. Say whose it is if that's easy and don't worry about it if it isn't
In a classroom — Yes — copy it, print it, put it on the wall. A teacher should not have to write to a poet in order to do their job
In a newsletter or a magazine — Ask first, because a poem that has appeared elsewhere can be turned down by editors later. It is nearly always yes and it takes one email
Set to music — Ask, and expect genuine interest. It needs a short written agreement so that neither of us is guessing about it in five years' time
Tattooed — Yes, obviously. Please send a photograph
Fed to a model for training — No. Saying no is probably unenforceable and it is still worth saying out loud rather than leaving it to be assumed

The man who reads the meter has a key
and lets himself in through the side gate
on the second Tuesday, and has done
for eleven years, and I have never
once been home for it.

I know his handwriting. He knows
the number I use, and how it climbs
in February. Somewhere there's a page
with the two of us on it, keeping
a sort of company.

I leave the gate unbolted. He leaves
the card. Neither of us has ever
written anything on it
that wasn't a number,
and I wouldn't call that nothing.