Thursday, April 17, 2008

Nat'l Po Month day 17: Conventions

When I was not single, we'd walk my dog together
every night, same route:
around the new hotel, tall pristine and proud
down the long convention center with its landscaped paths
curling back around the old hotel falling slowly apart
and then home again.

Conventions come and go and
the groups that visit them stand out with their similarities.
Scrapbookers wear pajamas, eat too much and carry
rolling suitcases behind them, laden with stickers.
Fishing enthusiasts also happen to be
very-large-truck enthusiasts and jeans-with-boots enthusiasts.
High school musicians like to sit out front of the hotel
waiting for the pizzas they've ordered all by themselves,
playing guitars and pretending they don't
want to kiss one another.
They come to town in so many yellow busses
lined up all in a row like a box of twinkies
and most of them leave their doors open.
We slipped inside a door one night, closed it
behind us, gave a toy to the dog and made
clumsy frantic love on three different seats
before we spotted his leash trailing behind him outside
and hastily snatched up pants and shoes to run him down.

Now, I enjoy being single. I swim in its freedoms,
take pride in actively loving myself:
I take me out on dates, buy me dinner,
buy me drinks, sneak a flask in
to the movie theatre and eat just as much
popcorn as I please before I take me on home
and respect me in the morning.
But it's summer in my city once again
and conventions are coming more
frequently. I round the corner with the dog
and see the Corvettes come in, so many rows lined up
for the show, bright shining hood after clean polished hood,
right in the middle, a pair of perfect seventy-six stingrays,
with absolutely no one to fuck on top of them.

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