He had a confident stride.
Like he’d been born with it.
Passed down
from some great
and wealthy descendant.

Just watching him move
around the room,
gently touching,
murmuring subtle compliments,
I knew all his loves
had been golden,
and that none of them
had ended with screams,
or fingernails clawing blood,
or biblical curses
right down to the grave.

He was well traveled
and had all the classics
on his bookshelves.

He had never known
the beaten desperation
of a crowded pawnshop.
Or a sterile abortion clinic waiting room.
Or having to wrestle a shotgun
out of his father’s arms
after much whiskey
and regret.

I do not hate him
as I ask his wife
to dance,
then lead her softly
out onto the floor,
my hand casually grazing
her magnificent ass.