The Sportsman Hotel, 3am
The advantage of my position, he
tells me, is that I can see every man
is a vase to be filled .
At this time of night I’ll half-listen
to almost anyone.
The crowd in the smokers’ cage
is dwindling down
to dregs.
To be a man
is to scrutinise
all men.
And then lie about it. While he talks
the beer in his glass, liquid
in a vessel,
effervesces to heaven.
The last two
masc4mascs lumber
off together stiff
hipped and necked.
The men here are no different
except to each other
they promise ascension.
I watch the Queen
with a knife in her purse
call it quits.
Greek vase-painters would
sometimes include gibberish
inscriptions beside the figures.
Some say to dupe
the ignorant. Others claim
the vase-painters themselves
were illiterate.
Tonight I’m inclined
to blame
the treacherous alphabet.
I’m leaving.
You’re right, he says,
Stay empty. Stay beautiful.
