Pedantic men, my age,
Bloated with certainty
Hair cindered with dye
Cheeks sunken
Tired eyes
Stained teeth bristling
From trimmed frenchies
Smelling of talc and aftershave
And cigarettes and disappointment
And bravado
Precise men, possibly ten years older,
Watches on their wrists
Feet stuffed into polished shoes
Like dreams into a garbage bin
Not For Recycling
Fingers restless
Laughter a shield or axe
Particular men, maybe ten years younger,
Razorblades in their luggage
Networking like a migraine
Spreading handshakes
Thumbing their devices
For official emails
Reply-alls
Their virtual signatures on a 1000 NDAs
You'll never find them keening
In a deserted canyon somewhere
Vertebrae clutched in their fists
Heads on sticks glaring at them
Faces washed in blood and tears
Chewing on their rival's flesh
Clawing away at their own
Superfluous flesh
Until skeletal they dance into death.