Justin Quinn (2010)
At twenty, you hold this street’s attention
better than the Bolshoi could—
the boots, the perfume, not to mention
the bling and ermine on your hood.
The way you walk is slash and burn.
Like understatement’s now a crime.
You leave a wake of men who turn
to make sure they were right first time.
They’re like small countries who betray
their old allegiances awhile.
Bound over as your vassals, they
blame others when they go on trial.
You yawn, head for a brasserie—
all gold and mirrors, lit like Christmas—
and join the two men drinking tea,
dressed in black suits, who mean business.
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