The Maryland Club

By Jacob Greene

Here we are in the valley of darkness,

And the shepherds are taking a snooze.

There’s a man at the table in a suit,

And though we all should be listening,

Only I am listening.

Heavy gold China pins down the white tablecloths,

And the portions are tiny to strangle

The waists and depress the guts.

Be sure, they tell me, to consume at the pace of

The party.

They come out to serve us,

And they are far too young to serve us.

Would you like some coffee? This from

A face with no name and this face is dark,

And pimpled and the smile dips in a way

That betrays the fading of the possible.

Is it Decaf? And she is asking for him

Because his vapid lips are pried open only by

Her excess.

Jewelry is chunky on her thin wrist.

Yes it is decaf,

And he musters the strength to nod a directive

While his left eye closes and his right eye twitches.

This the extent of his faculties, the waning extent of

His powers with which he will siphon the world until his death.

The suit is probably Brooks Brothers.

I look around now,

And they appear to be sleeping.

How can they be sleeping?

The aid is slaughtering his pie.

Did he not attend a session of the

International School of Protocol?

And I am thinking, but then I’m hearing,

And now I am really listening.

What’s this he’s saying about Russia?

He says his activity time was this:

Gray concrete square with no windows,

No windows.

No windows.

He walked in circles,

Circles.

Circles.

And in this time, he answered letters, and made his case, and signed his documents.

45.

Minutes.

He is talking and I am listening,

And then he slams his hand on the table:

There are more prisoners in Putin’s Russia than in the

Whole of the USSR.

There they are in Putin’s Gulag. My God. Where are my

Roommates?

A bathroom break.

One of them shuffles up next to me,

And the sound of piss hitting the urinal is weak

And impotent. Where are my roommates?

This piss is border-line deaf.

Senator, wake up.