"All this deluded elegance's against me. My ripe man of youth, a plaster_of_Paris David, hangs in a gaudy corner of the Taj Mahal like a ghost, and reckons up the poker_faces my goliath ambition birthed. 5 Golden quarters tinkle from a showgirl's palm in the moon_blue changing booth; she frowns; all that titanic lust for money unveiled in glitters! I count the shadowed furrows in her brow; the hot lights make her mascara leak. I pause and smile. 10 Coughed smoke smears the wards of patrons. Alone at the automatic door of the underground lot, swept by light, I hear the new cars creak and breathe. Who's so sure he can't find some solace in his death? I turn; she leans against me like a candystriper."
From the collection "Contemporaries"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.