Friday, January 27, 2012

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.

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