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Of No Consequence
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Railing at the Moon Grinning inanely the band of society bitches discuss the latest fads.
Dripping with jewelery, each wears five years income for the average family.
They glance in my direction and then write me off as a person of no consequence.
They show off the minute scars of the last unecessary operations.
And recite the litany of horrors surrounding last year’s god Bo-Tox.
In the corner the person of no consequence pays his tab and leaves.
His hunger had fled the room at the sight of the hideously disfigured women,
All over seventy, all trying to look like Barbie dolls.
They continue their daily round of scandal, triviality and backbiting.
And “really what is his type doing in here, he probably works or something.”
Insubstancial women of substance.
Widows of hen pecked men lucky to be dead.
Or wives of gigolos who pray for their death.
Superficial, superfluous and to be missed by non (except the hungry surgeon).
I return to my family of no consequence.
Revolted but happy,
To be of no consequence.
