Mirrors

by Luke Otley

One who would whimper and whine while

Preparing a presentation of a simple literary theme,

Is now a maple mass with mean glare and serious eyes

That still hold their childish lust

Though subdued, arm around a hulking biker

In a mood that could darken like dusk.

Especially dangerous when whisky fogged minds

Snort Columbian lines and dusted blinds fight off the morn,

In that mumble of dark this greased man whispers

“Gods move fearlessly these days” –

Or some such saying –

Before, with bent head and eyes red, he shudders again

A convulsion that leaves his tatooed lips trembling a mutter of absolution.