The impersonal sheets
Of the hotel bed
House the thrashings
Of fitful slumber...
And traded sex.
The bland, beige walls
Perversely watch
The performance
Of a woman
Paid
To pretend
Her panting
Pleasure
At being mauled
By a jerking beast,
Concerned only with
His myth of masculinity,
And reaching his
"Little death".
The cause of money relinquished:
Money, manhood,
And maybe life unmanaged,
Unremembered, or unknown.
Unlike the life
Acknowledged and ordained
By God,
Who shrouds them
In the same sheets,
Which the night before,
Concealed those
Unworthy of holy attire.
Those impersonal sheets
Bear the marks
Of many misled:
A coffee stain
From the murderous,
Money-driven man's
Late night;
Faded blood droplets
From a cocained Christ.
Those impersonal sheets,
Washed and reused,
But unable to rid themselves
Of the night before.
Instead, they remember
The moments of the many,
Making themselves
The keepers
Of memory unremembered,
And yet, forevermore,
They remain
Silent.
