Sacred Whore

He fancied himself a courtesean,
a magnet to married men;
troubled men, men in crisis;
seeking refuge in a fling or affair.

Over a drink or a meal he proffers
earnest ear and symphathetic smile
and tries to keep them entertained
with his talents and wit and education;
his knowledge of all things, and conversation

Later he nurses their wounded pride,
always politely moaning on cue;
remembering to claw their backs when he comes
and calling out their names when they do

On occasion he ventures into threesomes
with couples looking to recapture something;
vehicle for mutual frustrations,
conduit for bitter fantasies

Ever dwindling list of those who remain.
Consumed by sadness he crosses
names who moved on, moved away;
men who passd on, passed away.
Touched by the briefest of encounters

Sometimes he resolves to change,
leave this empty and melancholy
to make something of his life;
if only it weren't for the cheap necessity
and the vissicitudes of daily living.
When faced with bare cupboards in winter,
he thinks of handing out leaflets inscribed
... "can be had for dinner"

 


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