Midsummer on the steamy streets of town
where women fluttered by in filmy scraps
of muslin, silk and such, while men perspired
in standard two-piece suits and shirts and ties.
And he conformed; or so it seemed to those
who came and sought his sound advice on wills,
divorce, or disputes over land. Only
he knew that, underneath his sober grey
attire, his shaven legs were clad in sleek,
expensive hose and black satin panties
graced his trim behind. At weekends, freed from
work’s restraints, made-up, golden wig in place,
he dressed in women’s clothes and hung around
high-class hotels to look for lonely men.
Some drinks, sweet talk about his looks, the way
he moved, fulfilled his need. Maybe a kiss
then, Cinderella-like, he vanished in
the night, while in the bar the stranger cursed
And there he is, across the desk,
quite unaware he’s with the one he lost.