Not Going to See Jean Valentine Get Her Gold Medal Award
by Tim Suermondt
To put it in poetic language: it’s raining
Brahmins and sharks — and lately my spirit
and my body have been working in tandem,
growing weaker as hot July draws to a close.
The skies will brighten here soon if the forecast
is correct, and they will brighten at the Club
where the people who did attend will bask
and applaud as the medal is tied around your
neck, Jean — causing me to question my languor
for a good two minutes or three, a rather lengthy
show of rethinking on my part these days.
Your hands will be on the keyboard this night
when you’re back in your room, alone, like
the celebration never happened though the medal
still hangs from your neck and dangles over
what might be the right word you’re looking for,
no proof of validation making any of this easier.
And even I’ll start plugging away again, tomorrow.