by Christopher Clark
on silver platters, pointed
like graves gathered by the fireplace in
remembrance. Trails of sodden souls
in polyester skin make their way through.
They carry in heavy, escalating misery on
backs of men, pressed trousers to the ground. I
watched oldest legs and how they could stand
faces betraying strained remarks, eyes once marked
now dull. They are cloths left by the sink side,
to spurt mould in final utterance, dampened
protest at the use now squeezed out from
underneath the sneaky tricks of younger charlatans.
A silent dance, where legs fly and the air stews
its sweat, boiling under the effort from lowered
tones, breath baited in galleries, those stiffened corpses
I pass through like a graceful elephant, glib and
uncaring. Between false smiles and grimaced charms
I laugh at every one of them. The star of my runway,
I fill each lens to the brim, over-spilling
remorse and regret and everything laid between,
papered over empty joy, scraped from yesterday
it’s stale, taste of unfinished sentences and unfulfilled
chance. I am gluttonous to this. I drink it like a fine wine.
Drunk for a chance to look back and see barren sympathy
waiting for me, a belated gift or an old acquaintance arriving
thirty minutes late. Mouths move without noise, just
like before. Reaching the end of the room, I can only wonder.