It's national poetry day, so here's a little something on the rough side from myself:
Behind the opaque curtain
finely tailored wool, black label ties,
unbuttoned blazers for comfort,
relax by their electronic frequencies
screaming background noises,
deep shattering tremors,
click, click, click,
moving pictures across walls.
Fingers accelerate across buttons.
They tingle with loss of feeling.
Recently polished leather shoes
point towards each other, underneath
the thickening cloud of laughter.
It smells old, dry and sour, strong
tobacco, the smell of cigars,
banned by the U.S.
