Arm Trophy
He walks in to check me out —
next-door saloon’s whisper: a pretty European girl,
ripe for display, perfect arm-trophy
like the cattle he skins for millions.
Another charity case to flash along his Hermes belt —
Clemence: supple, matte, bull-calf leather.
Starched jeans, custom hat —
wealth folded into casualness,
the quiet arrogance of ranchers who think money makes them invisible.
I examine him before he breathes —
he hasn’t dressed himself; he’s orchestrated.
Groomed, clean cut, pressed jeans, pearl-snap cuffs,
Patek Philippe ticking like a heartbeat of power.
Understated money, soft yet sharp,
as if I am the dumb immigrant,
too small to notice the stakes.
Then he speaks.
Checkbook-white teeth.
Voice bubbling like sewage
spilled into silk.
Brags of twenty-dollar-a-day labor,
guest-worker visas abused,
passports stolen like children’s toys
to keep them tethered, trapped, silent.
He offers a smile —
asks me out, as if I were another acquisition,
another trophy to polish in his golden cage.
I imagine tearing him from existence,
ripping him into a private hell
where bile is his only language,
his teeth rot, his Patek stops —
a perfect, lyrical justice.
But I am human.
Immigrant.
Poor.
I still carry a soul.
And a little white lie: I have someone.
He climbs into his premium trim truck
and drives himself forever out of my world.
I sigh, as miles peel him from my reality—
the ghost he cannot buy, cannot tame, cannot erase.
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