Sansers Convention: Welcome Sansers

Immoderately, the Sansers
wept for themselves.

They drenched the rugs
They lapsed into fit in the ballroom
They convulsed at the sight of the catering tables
They quizzed oneanother to disastrous result
They unmelted all of the ice in the ice bowl
They sent away the bellman with grey looks and no tip
They chided the children into peeking around the unused backdoor
They elected a master of ceremonies who behaved like a hooligan

A ruined scarf and a stained tie for each
man and woman. We hotel guests were shaken,
bound in our beds
with the thermal
rouse that made its way
over the pipes and through
the walls
into each chamber. Seemed to moisten paper borders
near every cornice, devalue
our own sounds, as self-serving and trifling.

Every man’s brain is a hidey-hole when the storm starts to rise. A safe spot to lie when systems shut down, when the notthink is everywhere and our eyes can’t stay closed, when hardheads like the Sansers are poised to strike. Me? I return to the back bedroom of my stepdad’s now shuttered apartment, with blankets heavier than my body covering, and sour wine rushing in from the kitchen, and tiny blinking lights everywhere.

Don’t forget this.
The message came rolling out,
slurred wave of noise supporting it like a stiff
peak crowning a bowl of meringue, not to forget. It’s difficult
to feel this way with the bottomless chambermaid running through
the hall calling “Get out! The pipes are burst!”

Sansers broke a compact with the management and stunk up the place we trusted with our sleep, with our prone and naked bodies. They bribed our hurt feelings with a loving cupful of hundred dollar bills. They salved tiny agonies with warm gesturing and meaty handshakes. They heard nothing and continued on like louts for the age.