After yesterday’s rain.
As if washed away down wherever the water may flow,
The attendance today is decidedly low.
In the conference room
There are a dozen maybe — or,
Maybe less, but more than seven
And at a quarter to the strike of eleven
The chair calls for a discussion and I am there
As Speaker Number 1 entertains queries
On Cultural Tourism and numerous related disparities.
He talks on and on — his tedious argument,
Further explored, digressed, re-spun and back.
Guy to his left and the lady to his right
Engage with his thoughts, provoking his genius.
The guy to his left, in a gesture all too familiar,
In a tone already marked, in some long ago show,
moving his head in an angle that I knew,
Bends forward, slightly, making identification real —-
Is it him, then; is it he:
Yes, it is him. Yes, it is most certainly he.
Engaged in debate on tourism,
Sexuality. Surreal and sweet — life’s random meetings.
Who else would write a poem for him, now politically correct?