Al Nyhart 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.


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