david plumb | the affair

The Affair

Blond, pale white jeans, she waves hello
and glances back at the parking lot.
On my next walk around the lake she sits
in her red Toyota with a thin bearded man.
A white truck that says “Electronics”
on the door is parked alongside.
I walk the stillness of twelve-twenty-two P.M
past the orange iguana, the wings-spread anhinga
the homeless man lying on a picnic table
past benches, barbecues, squirrels, the pedal boats alone on the dock
and this time around, I walk slower and sure enough
by the first table to my right, stand this shadowed pair
he watching me carefully, she awash in heat.
I slip by this harboring of want
raising ruckus beyond the birds, the quiet lake
the simple lunch breaks, the space we give ourselves
and by the time I make another round, the iguana
is green with a tan head, the homeless man sleeps
his feet twitching in thick socks and the couple
are walking back to the parking lot holding hands
in that maybe forever dance we know the end of.

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