The Shame, So Shamelessly Held
I cannot say with any certainty
why it came to me, then, there,
but it came to me
unexpected as birth.
The kitchen was bright as the summer
and comfortable as the paving
next to the swimming pool.
Our hosts were pleasant as we were,
the conversation pleasant as our hosts
as pleasant as we were.
Yet somehow it came to me
that there might be a man at the table
unpleasant and angry as life itself,
and somehow it came to me
that he might be me.
I didn't like him much
but I wouldn't dare tell him,
he was far too unpleasant and angry,
I'd seen his kind before.
He was shorter and stouter than I would be
but he might be me.
He was made of muscle and malice
and maybe some contraband too.
He had a mohawk, or something not far off,
they'd not been seen much
in polite society, not yet.
If it was good enough for Mr T
it was good enough for a swaggering bandit
returning from prison, or from the war,
or a crack-house on the fringes of midnight.
He ranted some, he spat it out with relish.
I'm not sure who he ranted at
but he ranted, maybe at everyone.
He may have ranted at me just a little,
perhaps because I let him,
but if you'd met him you would have too.
13th July 2018
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