Past the door you closed with faint regrets

the smell of tangled fortune wallows by the window

The smell stuck on men who look like you

the men who walk like you, who talk

with a tongue of gold and a growl heavier than bourbon

You all wear the same prestigious crown

you’ve placed on your own gentle heads

Your fingers experienced in the ways of the fine arts:

bribery, blackmail, seduction, corruption

each an interruption, equal power of its own kind.

 

I wait on this side of the door

padding in my air of innocence

The only force from your fingers I’ve felt

is the tremble of fatigue

when you light your cigarette

The curve of your forefingers set in stone

from each day of writing your way into the success

defined by others as “a business man”

Never have I seen your crown

but only the balding where the center should be

And the only odor I can detect

is the gas station coffee that stained your shirt

5 hours away from here.

And everyone wonders why I’m daddy’s little girl.