The Chairman Goes Swimming

by Quin Nelson

He waits unsteadily at the banister
Perhaps feeling his age, swept in
a swift wind with the expanse
of the river before him
The photographers hold,
No greatness to be captured
in the tentative moments
And then with resolve,
He lowers himself and
the water gives way
In such a vast body,
Displacement acts as disappearance
You meet him at the car,
You clutch his arm
He feels despondent, depleted
At dinner he eats little
And drinks too much
And in bed you try to speak
And he presses his forearm
at your throat,
and he insists you give like water


Quin Nelson works as a teaching assistant in Portland. He likes to read and write and draw and play pickup basketball, and his housemate has a cat named Spoon.

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