The Corridor King

Diana Senechal

I stopped you in the hall for advice,
taller, but looking up to you,
older, but baby to your words.
Answers tumbled into my ears.

Giant, you swept away my thoughts.
With bull-deep voice and rustic legs
you told me the tale of taking time
to sort things out alone, etc.

I thanked you, beaming, tossing it all.
Perhaps I had caught a tone or two,
but even that had not been my plan.
I took in your counsel just to stand still

(a hard enough task when you're in the lead,
spooning out words to numbered minds).
I made you my mentor so I could rest
and slip out of my decision-dress.

The question concerned a cracking life,
where neither of us had special wit.
You knew the girl much better than I,
but I knew more from other sides.

I knew not only that I was the girl
(ha ha, did you guess it, later that night?)
but that it was you who had sought me out,
longing to play the corridor king.

And golden you loomed in my tiptoe farewell.
And foxy I bounced in your double-take,
a faceted tower—a frivolous dot—
we shook back into our clumsy frames.

O to be at ease for a little while,
whatever it takes. I lie, by the way.
We were a little more nervous than that,
taking turns speaking, shifting our legs.