The Passing Narcissist
I saw him, taller than corn, a high-collared shirt,
and wristy Rolex smile; beguile: the club, deep-dark
low, and drawing in the rich and not so
and then moving from the brewing bar, the jar of late
custom, floated to a sofa, sitting and announced,
”here’s the ladies, come to dance,”
and lacquered whores, employed with fizzy drinks,
circled him like robbers, buy a horse;
And he was hand-made, every detail Sachs, Dior,
light and shade; what silver spade had so fashioned,
I do not know, such a loathsome song of self-love,
and glow?
and later when he left, a monarch rising from his
borrowed throne, I thought perhaps he wasn’t bad,
or wasn’t good, nothing you could finger same, and say
Oh yes, it’s plain!
and he smiled a smile of self- love, not hope, passing me
as I drank; and when he’d gone, I fancied I’d seen the Devil;
or the Devil’s name, holidaying fresh from hell;
and quickly I looked the room; for candle, book and bell;
wondering now if I’d drawn in, his hellish earthly spell.
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