I feel my Adam’s apple catch the buttoned collar
with every swallow.
The key note speaker makes power points,
graphs and lines that ever incline.
I roll my eyes, but Ohhh and Ahhh, it’s a crowd pleaser!
We applaud. (I’ll applaud any ending.)
Shaking pins from our thighs, we depart The Blue Room,
past the “Welcome” tripod, a few no-show name tags
still scattered on the greeter’s table.

All aboard the chartered bus, bound for the fabulous Fernando’s!
clients and hosts clammy in rows, clever pupils, apes with tools.

In our private room with black lacquered bar
my tasseled loafers sink in the carpet,
amber ales and liquors twinkle with electric candlelight,
thick oils in ornate frames, attendants in flurried manners
catch the corporate trickle. Pasta dangles from twirling tines,
scatters bits in the brown ambiance or on my silk tie.

My client has sauce on her chin, and finally, I tell her.
She laughs grandly. (I’ve mustered just enough to have her like me.)

A sudden vastness, the outdoors wild and brimming,
the oxygen tastes of Chianti and yellow exhaust.
Plied and waiting, they laugh and mist comes out.
At the front, affected tones continue,
so I drift to the back, where the engine gently shakes.

And the night is cool neon. Everything softens,
panoramic, the city spins
round and round the darkened bus,
and again my thoughts are mine.

10/24/2007

Posted on 10/24/2007
Copyright © 2024 David Hill