USA

maryannj@us.ibm.com

Stalemate

He's tucked into his desk,
the man in the blue flannel shirt,
his knee twitching,
the heel of his boot tap, tap, tapping
as he gnaws his callused hand.
He's reading his mail.

One by one, he opens his fears--
pending litigation for an off-the-cuff remark,
news of a less-than-meager salary increase,
other people's plans that require his attention.
His biggest fear he leaves unopened.

A drop rolls down the pane and catches his eye.
Through the pane, he thinks he sees his ideal woman
strolling across the lawn.
It's hard to tell where she
begins and the mist ends.

She's been there a while. She's damp,
and her clothes are sticking to her.
Her hands have that too-long-in-the-bathtub look.
She looks barely twenty, but who could become so
beautiful in only twenty years?

He hears her.
She's reciting a poem about his favorite things--
quarter horses, and puppies waiting to be weaned,
and Mediterranean cuisine,
and the way social injustice affects
the global economy.

He's sure he hears the sound of his own sustenance
seeping through the pane.

She's holding him
with her eyes. He's
powerless, but he's never been stronger.
She's confusing him in an
undeniably practical sort of way.
She's reading his mail.

Her eyes glimmer with a disconcerting blend
of childlike innocence and savoir faire.
She engages his mind.
For his ideas, she's the perfect hostess.
In discretion, she's his personal trainer.

She stretches forth her hand,
and though she doesn't say a word,
he knows she's asking him to soar with her
on a different plane.

He hesitates.
He reviews his fears.
His pulse races.
His hands tremble.
His lips are sticking to his teeth.
Another drop rolls down the pane,
and he lifts his hand
to dry his callused face. 

© All Copyright, Mary Ann Johnson.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.