Poem: The Unsaid Part

The luxury hotel is dreadful. Of course. Between sips of crisp white wine and sideways glances at the predator who tonight might consume or adopt, the mind dashes madly to that certain thing that always

Gets a laugh.

Do not show weakness. Do not need anything or anyone — and they will need you and all that you have: the house, the other house, the private telephone number of someone omnipresent and universally agreed to be sexier than the rest.

Drama or comedy, the genre matters not. Only this: Who shall be eaten.

Who shall wield and who shall yield.

So many pretty people, huddled around the food, searching. Evaluating.

As they might the tenderloin upon a plate of off-white porcelain. Or a young man, ripe for violation.

The talk never stops, barely pauses, like a rodent in the seed silo.

Where each one stands is sorted out.

And each one leaves more certain than before of his proper place.

And the stars in the firmament — the gaseous twinkling ones, the ones that shall not require surgical improvement or moral condemnation — shine on.

And the boy will sing to them, about them.

And some will clap in approval, and others won’t be there at all, not in body or in spirit, otherwise occupied by deal making and love making and exquisite longing.

And all the pretty people, rich and strong and mattering more than almost anyone else will return to that barren room and understand in the dark why no one, not even the paid scribes among them, was able to say:

“I am scared.”

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