we
stepped into the gallery;
stepped onto pristine marble floors, sheen-decked, with our
grubby school shoes like
mud on palace gates;
stepped into a world of
suits and champagne and jewelry,
of cheese we couldn't pronounce,
of empty speeches and pretence;
"******* ***", as you put it.
we
walked around the exhibition, you weren't
all that impressed and you
didn't really keep quiet about it.
you were the only one, I think.
rich powerful men scare me.
we
walked down the hall, past
twenty closed doors, extending as if
mirrored to infinity;
you
were still unimpressed,
"This doesn't really work,"
you said.
"I feel like he's done
Everything he can with this style."
I think the same but I don't say the same.
rich powerful men scare me.
I wonder if
they're ******* their daughters behind those closed doors.
a poem about visiting a high end photography opening with my friends
