It’s been a few days since I posted any poetry here. So here’s one I wrote awhile back, then found this week tucked in a book on quantum physics that I didn’t finish reading. (The Fabric of the Universe by Brian Greene. Amazing first half.) I was using an early draft as my book mark. I thought it was worth editing and sharing.
Update Jan. 12, 2010:
This morning on Twitter all of the HighCallingNetwork was ablaze about Bridget Chumbley’s blog carnival on Lust. I remembered this poem and threw it in the ring.
Here’s the story. Several years ago when I went to Florida to grade the English AP Exam, I ran smack into a shag fest. I don’t know why this suprised me. After all, business trips and conferences must always have their share of adultery and fornication. So much freedom, so easy to hide in hotel rooms.
A guy at my table–and several others of the thousands who were there–were quite open about the . I’m sure this did not affect their ability to score the exam. I’m not trying to cast a pallor on the College Board or anything. They were just the location of this particular bit of infidelity.
On the last morning, those of us who graded thousands of essays together that week were saying our goodbyes. Then a pretty forty-something lady approached one of my grading buddies.
“Here’s your key back,” she said. “See you next year.”
He looked at me a bit sheepishly, but also dared me to judge him. I didn’t say anything, but I couldn’t help judging. We had shared our family wallet photos. He told me about his wife. I told him about mine.
The worst of all was the loyalty of the affair. See you next year.
It is an image I have never let go. But it is also something I try to keep in mind as a warning. Business travel can be dangerous. I can not forget that.
End of update. Here’s the poem.
Answered For
I understood I think. I mean
when the late 20s teacher with bleached
tips and crimped zags leaves a room key
at the seat next to mine, John’s,
she covers the card key’s blush
with a yellow sticky note. She knows
I’m watching. I can’t help being
what she’s made me, accomplice conspirator
against John’s wife of fifteen years.
My role earned this glance, I hope.
When John returns with coffee,
she’s gone and he leans over to show
me her note: “Guess we’re broke up
officially.” My look must condemn him,
a seven day conference acquaintance.
He’s mostly name tag after all–
John Something–I always have to look.
We start conversations at the chest
level, looking for each other’s hearts
and settling for names, first
and last, and our home towns.
All week we’ve carefully skirted depth,
waiting two days to dig up
bent photos of kids and wives
posed for someone’s camera.
“She’s four and he’s ten months,”
I confess, missing my family
the way I miss coffee on hectic days
when a midmorning headache reminds me
I left my travel mug next to the sink.
Cheap workroom coffee dulls the pain
until my wife asks later, “How
can you forget it?” I never know
the answer. Those evenings I’ll find
my travel mug scrubbed clean inside
so the steel shines white. Everyone knows
coffee tastes better from a clean cup.
