Merciel

The shadows and haze cannot conceal
his glamour–it takes center-stage
the moment he strays into the club,
glitters at night with milky way starlight
so bright it blinds eyes blurred by ecstasy
and liquor. His apple blossom air
annuls drugstore colognes preceding
his flutter through the crowd caught
on him to a booth behind the stares.
He orders a Sprite and waits.

A procession pries his gate, picking the lock
with manicured fingers and photoshopped faces.
No combination will click, no coo cracks
the wall. With merciful smiles he casts them
back to the bluffs beside their rusting trophies.
A green-eyed girl steps over the casualties,
flitters into the twilit booth to try her attempt
to unearth his name. “Oberon,” he finally says
as if to confirm rumors he’s fay, but though
perhaps fantasy, she choose to stay.

She stammers over well-rehearsed flirtations
to lure him to dance. He follows her anyway
onto the stage as clear as night on a midsummer day–
they are the stars on which the underlings gaze,
Their performance proceeds obliviously
to radio hits playing through speakers and static,
to the throng of thralls that stand against the walls,
relishing each step he struts across the floor.
Even those not caught under his spell
dissect each step to graft to their stagger.

Midnight strikes an hour later. He pulls out
from her embrace; she pulls him back
with a pouty face, pleading for a peek beneath
the colorful fabrics he fashions himself,
the frills that lured her in. His cider kiss
muffles her moan, petrifies her in bliss.
He mouths goodbye as he floats through
the parting stares outside into the darkness.
Stripped of the stuffy straps, lit up with cigarettes,
he dreams of his reign in Avalon again.