SAVAGE DELIGHTS
And they make them welcome too. I am the
in-between man, standing at the corner of
17th. My brim hat, wide-floppy, seems right
to protect me from the rain. It falls around me,
and puddles beneath the building. I am just under
an old window-eave. Something from 1917.
Curious is that, no? Men say on this site one
hundred fifty years ago was a thriving brothel.
A whorehouse to the stars, in effect, of its day.
The rich, the fat, brocaded men with diamond
stick-pins in their lapels, standing about for their
cherry delights. A hundred choices in a velvet lobby.
-
It's all, of course, nothing now, and all those men
long gone. They died, at least one would hope -
just to give them a gentlemanly break - with their
dicks in their hands and a girl beside them. But
probably not. Counting-thieves, like pennies these
men encumbered nothing; small-change nonentities
in a far-larger war. The thriving might of Manufacture,
and the throbbing pulse of War and its productions,
led them on to the rich and comfortable life.
And then dropped them like Death's very own
hag herself would be dropped by them.
-
I am standing under this building, still and steady.
It's the site of a million past emotional couplings.
Now, the rain falls without even a blink,
and the gentle, wet world goes on.
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