In this quiet room of praise and counting coin,
a lady waits
with patience tucked behind his wall of bone.
She is part whore too- for every decent Eve is,
while, just like every-other-Adam, he twists
himself, wears a skeleton of need
as want, more ivory outside than in-
a shield of reason
warding thieves away from softer truth.
She takes a moral inventory from her shelf,
tallies stacks of memory in columns labelled
hope and fear.
A fire-sale, held in a two-dollar shop,
where everything is cheaper when lonely,
finds her worth more valued
than denial ever was.
she marks him down as surplus stock.
Honorable winner
Adding your comment:
