5/ Body Language

A few years ago I thought it would make an interesting exhibit to pair poems with some of my father's vintage office party pictures. I didn't get very far with it. Here's the result.

Body Language

Marriages are suspended

the second Friday of December

when desks are cleared to make room

for cheese and crackers, and the vault

opens to scotch and gin.

She marvels that recent events in his life—

the new house, the new baby—didn’t even slow

the inevitable holiday slide into man

on the make. Just one drink, and he’s looking.

Does he want me to look, too? she wonders.

She notes his odd posture, his slightly spread

knees. Is he trying to show me what he’s got?

But her truth is that he has nothing

she wants. Except perhaps the little ranch

house in the suburbs. And the baby.

As I do the arithmetic, I realize it's sooo unlikely these two are still alive. And it also seems beyond the realm of possibility their descendants would see this and initiate a lawsuit. But indulge me in my paranoia, please, and imagine your own version of their faces. But if you'd rather see their real faces, send me an email. I'm on Gmail as Editoria.