Homecoming

The seat and my ass are like two people at a party who are trying to avoid one another, but my feet stick to the bottom of my boots like stones too big to carry. Middle aged men sit on either side of me. They are so close that the heat from their bodies condenses on my skin. I am a lozenge stuck in the corner seam of an old woman's handbag. One row back, a tongue bends like a swimmer's toes and the voice of a woman pushes off of her teeth, slides through a straw into the air and then dips into the pool of my patience.

"They better get this thing started. Like I said, if I don't get these books signed..."

The house is full of her sentiment, her type. Graying hair tufts atop their white heads. They are liberally-educated. They are shirt-tucked and socially-secured. They clap Democratic. The books in their bags have too much white space.