The Dark Side of the Moon
By William Doreski
Your S & M shop bustles.
Handcuffs, dog collars, whips and chains.
Leather goods: cowhide straps and thongs,
calfskin trousers, vests, and bras.
Tourists from the Marriott
and Sheraton hotels browse
for Boston souvenirs. They like
what they see, and buy quantities
to bring home to friends in Nebraska.
Snow dusts the sidewalks. Small dogs,
firmly leashed, sniff at the gutters.
Homeless men with cardboard signs
beg for cash to convert for food
enough to fuel another day.
The sky’s a golden illusion.
It illustrates the cold with florid
little gestures, cosmic intentions
that apply only to the rich.
Skyscrapers nuzzle this complex
of weather and faith. Their windows
glow with happy excess. Maybe
some of that exertion, that fervor,
fumes from the sexual excitement
your products induce in psyches
that otherwise would go adrift.
The pallor of January resolves
into naked cries and whispers
that shape passions we never knew
in our past lives. Your cash flow,
jangling like a carillon, warns me
not to approach you as I used to,
but to buckle up a new self