Man In The Doorway

He stood in

The doorway,

A mere silhouette,

A story up.

I could not see

In the room beyond him

But I knew

What existed there.

Men standing,

Sitting, leaning on walls,

Beers in hands,

Eyes on women.

Women twisting and turning,

Gyrating and writhing,

Nude and almost nude,

All out in front of

Strange men.

I could not tell if

The man in the doorway

Was looking in

Or looking out.

Was he another zombie

Staring at the flesh

Of innocent women

Trying to make a buck

Who may go so far

As offer a fuck

For said buck?

Or was he staring out

Into the night sky

Where it stretches out

To meet the sea?

Was he staring longingly

At women he could not

Cover and even if he

Got their bodies,

Their hearts, their souls

He could never have.

Or was he looking out,

His spirit seeking out

Another spirit that fits

Perfectly with his,

Trying to escape

The debauchery that lay

Just behind him?

I called out to him,

My curiosity at its zenith,

And he turned to me,

His eyes adjusting to

The darkness that surrounded me.

When he realized that

He knew me not,

That I was fully dressed,

Not an ounce of tender flesh

Exposed, he turned away.

In that moment,

All my questions were answered,

He was a zombie,

Slack jawed with eyes

Boring into the tender flesh

Of women gyrating,

Writhing, trying

To make a buck.