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Yuletide Cranshaw |
I meet him at the office Christmas Party.
Otherwise our paths in life would never cross.
A drink in both red hands, stirring the placid
pot of conversation, trying to increase its
inner heat, he declaims to no one in particular,
"An ounce of whore is worth a pound of spouse!"
That's because you never married, I think.
Only a man who's never not been alone
could think a thought like that. He laughs,
pokes the upper arm of the prettiest woman
at the makeshift bar. "Right? Right?" he asks.
Most of the women shift uncomfortably
and drift away. A few who enjoy blushing
move closer. He becomes the nucleus
of a spirited group of mostly neckless men.
The oily conversation behind me flares up.
Sharp sparks from it seem to threaten the tree.
Cranshaw likes his bon mot so well he says again,
"An ounce of whore is worth a pound of spouse!"
Raucous laughter erupts. Bully cheers resound.
To a young woman of recent acquaintance
I chuckle, Well, in my experience at least,
I've found that an ounce of spouse is worth
much more than a pound of whore.
She stares at me with frosted disbelief.
I endure a silence reverberant as greed.
copyright 2017
Bill
Yarrow |
