This is a darker sort of poem than I’m used to writing, but I just couldn’t keep from posting it. When inspiration grips the mind you give it free reign to direct you where it wills, quite often to places you’d never have gone without being pushed. But, it’s usually in those periods of willful bondage that you come across an idea worth every moment of discomfort. And that goes for reading such pieces, as well; you should allow yourself to be disturbed every once in a while.  I think Changing of the Guards illustrates this nicely.


perfect indiscretions,
pluperfect little sins
of escape, misdeeds
of the usual omission
passed down through ages
old to young, though the young
generally partake
only when they’re older –
something about rites
of passage

soft moments left
to whither once tenderness
runs out – as fixed prices
and codes of conduct
in the oldest profession
demand – though I wouldn’t
buy the act I’ve payed for

who knows how many have seen it?

dangerous is the daylight,
for fear of being discovered,
but safer still than fickle
lampposts who waiver in attention
or the lonesome cityscape
infused with idle brake lights

at least that’s what
I think, what I’ve been told

but how should I know?

evocative, improper
though sometimes nothing
of the sort; the sort that Pity
might stop by to check in on
if she knew where to look
or if she were invited, wanted

directions are hard to find
or they’re not – there’s probably
an app or two on the market,
selling themselves
for a few dollars

like clockwork, rotations are made
and posts manned
according to the number
of average passersby –
reminds me of the Changing
of the Guard at Buckingham:
gaily dressed, but all business;
expressionless: on-duty;
and minus the admiring onlookers,
though some do admire
and appraise, haggling
with professionals
who barely make do

some call this justice
but justice for whom?


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