Remorseless
The gloomy green-eyed count is noiseless. Gnarled
hands work in lustrous moonbeams, hide the bumps
with beached whale blankets, frugal choices bought
on sale. Now dawn, the wind elbows the night
with gusts that rant at worthless windows. Next,
he puts the label on his luggage, leaves
the bedroom, hurries by a bloodstained fixture
where he hobnobbed last night half undressed
from zany party scuffles. Tired from puking,
drugged, excitement dwindling, caked with mud,
he passes sleeping mountaineers and flees––
a jaded bandit, into radiance,
arousing naked barefaced girls who blush.
Kim King©2015
KSquaredPoetry 