3797. IN THE DIPLOMAT'S HOUSE

IN THE DIPLOMAT'S HOUSE

His wife was a  bitch, and already his

foreign-tongued daughter was whoring.

I knew that and so did he  -  it doesn't

take a foreign intrigue to smell wet panties

and protein-infused breath. He was just too

stupid to realize, or step in, or complain.

Dumb shit, always the ragged diplomat.

-

I sat around their house plenty of afternoons;

east 53rd, doorman, crystal doorway and, down

below, the fucking east river in all its pounding glory.

I stayed whenever, and they let me be : some sort of

American adjunct to their foreign-education outreach

program was I. Complete bullshit and illicit crap - it

let them launder money down a trap, and all I ever saw

of anything was, here and there, a crisp fifty and all

the food I needed. Plus of course, her; OK, I admit,

both hers. Again, he was too stupid to know.

-

I should have been President of something,

all the knowledge I picked up along the way.