To the Beautiful Men in Soho, with Whom I Rode the Elevator

I forgive you your BlackBerrys, your iPods and shoes.
I’d never wanted shoes until I saw your shoes, and,
well, let’s just admit it, once I wanted your shoes
I checked out your trousers as well.

Not pants at all, like my corrupted, crotch-worn jeans,
but fine, tailored trousers of high grade silk.
The three of you are terrible. So perfect in appearance,
with all those well-designed facial bones and teeth.

Here I stand, miserably understanding. I forgive you
so much. How the elevator prefers your floor to mine.
How you are really flirting with each other while seeming
to flirt with me. I forgive you the glimpse through the doors.

The eighth floor loft; the show for which you are contracted;
the gleam of skin and mirrors; the whiff of champagne and meat.

—JOHN DEGEN

(Originally published Christmas, 2007.)