In the end
they’re only little games we play.
Check into a one-room cell
& for a night or two
call it Home-Sweet-Home
undergarments tucked in foreign drawers
passions spelled out on strange beds
intoxication chilled in a little plastic pail of complimentary ice.
Sometimes we may even falsely register
as Mr. Smith or Ms. Doe, or as Marie Samuels.
Thin white lies,
to rejuvenate the puppet-cord routine
of punch-clocks and 9am conclaves.
Anything to tilt our lives a bit askew.
For in the end, what cuts our games apart
from those of a seemingly Normal Man
who Baits women into his lair,
is a question of degree.
The scope of his game is just a little grander.
A fake name on a register
or a weekend tryst off beaten paths
is just as much a game
as tilting life and death inverse
until the living are but insects scuttling a dusty bowl
or stashed in swamps,
while the mighty Dead are perched in gothic splendour
in a temple
on a hill
beneath a baleful moon.
There is a waltz of neon Vacancy
& nocturnal conversations
between one who likes to speak her sawdust dreams
to her beloved,
who sets the rules.