Shame smells like
the memory of disco
on a late Eighties morning when you’re
staring at the ceiling
of an unfamiliar house
and planning the next five minutes
because you can’t think
beyond that.

Shame feels like
a wool blanket wrapped around you
to protect your ass from freezing or discovery
while you’re sitting on the oak floor
of an unfurnished three decker,
late on a Saturday night.

Shame, visible by inches,
rises just enough to draw you in
and sink again, pulling you
after.

Shame is not a silent beast —
is a fart in church, a belch in a seminar,
the death rattle in Central Park
no one hears.

But shame doesn’t taste like much
of anything. You can’t pretend you’re
sustaining yourself on it. You can savor it,
roll it around in your mouth, swallow it even,
but live on it? That’s a laugh, a clown’s
laugh — painted on, and who knows
what it cost?