The Conference
Eight people
One table
Six coffees
Two tall glasses
The woman
is laughing
right hand covering mouth
left arm latched
across robust stomach
The man sits
touches name-tag
watches the presentation
focuses on the logo
crawling across the powerpoint
fists tighten
under white table cloth
She leans in
splits a muffin
in half with a fork
passes under passing glances
to the suit on her right
They are discussing
in muffled voices
the importance of the Sierra Club
As the line forms
By the microphone
For question and answer
her arm brushes
the unsteady stem
of a glass
And he wishes
it would spill
spread orange juice
like blood on the sidewalk
oil in the oceans
sweat soaking into the motel bed-sheet
of her room last night
(her hair in tangles
clumsy, making faces
undignified
but lovely)
She spills nothing now
(brushes brushed hair
behind her cool, unflushed ear)
and smiles
behind a hand
at this other man
While his heart pulses
under flesh
swelling against his wedding ring
The crowd claps politely
shifts universally
rustles unfamiliar fabric
320 people
40 tables
270 cups of coffee
Two happy people
(and one heart
beating too slowly)
