Marc Jampole: Weinstein Enters the Courtroom

The perfect disguise: wearied hanging flab 
of someone who has lost and gained 
and lost and gained and lost and gained
bulges at half-tucked washed-out shirt, 
shedding skin, still attached but drooping,
 
decayed, reptile-eyed terminal stare, 
breathes a lizard’s mating rattle, 
weak non-smile that beams debilitation, 
jittery hands clinging to a metal walker,
rescue ropes bobbing at water’s surface, 
 
lugubriously, thirty pounds strapped 
to each thigh and slithering through deep mud
in concentric circles of power-tied lawyers 
and prison guards—camouflage and hunting dogs—
the weakest and most vulnerable of old men, 
 
too frail to force desire on anyone.

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Copyright 2020 Marc Jampole