Stranded in D.C.

In Borders Bookstore at 18th and L,
a man started talking to me inexplicably
about power, networking, and weapons of mass destruction.
About endgames and think tanks
and heads that will roll.
He sneered a lot and was emphatic,
also suspicious, looking slyly out of the corners of his eyes
at our fellow bookstore-coffee-drinkers
as if they were staked out to hear his insights on Hussein's master plan
and the importance of nurturing relationships
with people in power.
He talked and talked
and I got to wondering if this powerful man was lonely,
if this would be his most sincere interaction of the day,
if he considered himself benevolent for talking to me:
a girl clearly powerless and maybe a bit naive.

I left and got on a train
where I stood facing a man,
stern and upright in a gray skimmer,
who was holding a book on pragmatism
and appraising me pragmatically
as I appraised him poetically,
unapologetically.

After that I bought a bottle of Australian wine
and walked back to my hotel,
thinking about race, power, and pragmatism,
poetry and networking,
public transportation and different words for hats.