Tuesday, July 24, 2012

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.

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