Sunday at the Park Pavilion
You’ve stayed late,
withstood the ninety degree heat, the mosquitoes,
the brief thunderstorm
& the peculiarities of the woman
standing in front of you
who can’t find her mouth with the plastic spoon full of Yoplait.
She finally gives up, tosses the container onto the wet grass
as the next speaker approaches the stage.
You strain to hear his rehearsed voice
sounding a bit like yourself
if you were a little nervous, somewhat frightened, but defiant
& looking for a way out
as you are now, backing slowly away from the crowd
who won’t miss you
or notice you’ve left the bomb unattended
while you excuse yourself, resolute
for what you have to do today
in the politeness of a setting sun.