Left Or Right? Poem by Rashida Mack

His cuff links glisten against the white pallor of his sleeves,
wrist watch too, moves light,
as he drinks Scotch from a frosted glass,
an ice cube pierces his lip as amber spills down his throat,
through his blood.

Mirrored eyes,
lit slits of the day,
stare back through the city of bottled skyscrapers,
reflecting his hotel room,
empty,
save a closet and drawer filled with three days wear,
a forgotten mobile full of contacts,
and a photo.

He asks the bartender for another.

Poured into his glass cupped in eager hand,
he moves for the card,
and sees the number,
passed along by a fellow member.
This agency will provide,
Alexis, Salvatore,
Mikhail, Gretchen
or simply him or her,
at your discretion.

He tucks the card in the pocket of his front jacket as he scans the lounge and bills his drinks to his room.
Stepping off the cushioned and backed stool,
he walks through the Havana cigar smoke,
along the checkered lobby that holds every move,
to the corner,
where he picks up the house phone
and dials,
home.

*www.Goldenphant.com