Storm stuffed with snow
stomps the sky’s boots
through hallways, conventions.
Delegates register, scatter
to the four sides of the square,
to the Four Seasons.
A corner suite. Storm
thrums the windows. Each year
they re-enact the ritual:
her hands meshed in his hair,
his stubble chafing her thighs.
She arches on the wardrobe door.
Next morning, at the plenary,
they sit apart. Each time they vote
a secret warmth escapes their hands.
Credit note: “Delegates” was first published in my third poetry collection, Men Briefly Explained.
Tim says: I can’t remember why, but the idea of a couple who conduct a secret affair at an annual convention they both attend popped into my head, and this is the result. For some reason, the idea only works if the annual convention takes place in winter.
The Tuesday Poem: Keeps getting better.