The air reeked of old perfume
And musty wool jackets with the suede patches on the elbows.
The podium came to rest lightly at your feet
And you campaigned for your accomplishments.

You knew they liked it because they clinked their glasses.
Somewhat charming, the sound of dignified mumbles of approval
Hung like stale gingerale in the chipped glass room. The younger one,
The author, as he had introduced himself,
In the sleek black coat crisp and pressed like the fresh iridescent pages of his novels,
Smiled at your lofty achievements and loftier ideals.

They questioned and prodded and teased at every loose lock of detail
Eagerly pulling each thread from the fissures of your mind
With the refined frailty of their weathered hands.
You spun them your life, your art
They wound it eagerly in their fraying looms.

The author smiled from behind them.
He had a story to tell you. But they had you cornered.
You listened with perfect insincerity
To the anxious stories of daughters and flautists and Belgian chocolate
As told by the stale storytellers
Reading from their pages hardened and yellowed and burnt with age.
Feigned delight like the politician you are
Campaign wrapped around your little finger tapping unnervingly on the podium.
The author checked his timepiece
Watched your admirers
Watched the door.

Minutes passed like honey
Rolling down the rain-beaten windows with golden viscosity
You hung trapped, suspended in the smothering amber glow of praise
Like those mosquitoes stuck in sap in some Jurassic forest.
The tick-tick-tick of the author’s watch accelerated like the speedometer of the sedan in the rain
And the questions faded
As abruptly as the chill draft signaling the departure of the novelist.

So you stood there and you wondered
What story you had missed from the man with the novels in his arms
What pages of scrapped memories you could have shared
What words you would have exchanged and edited and drafted into conversation.
Once the elderly crowd had shifted away
And the room had been slowly deflated of its kind but stale air
You took up your cause and took it into the rain.

His sedan had left and the time had grown of age and you returned to your day
To the infinite campaign of life and dreams and schoolwork
Still wondering what sort of speeches would have been given
Between the author and the politician.