The Hush Room

past the perfume-soaked whores
on the corner,
in their inches of heels
and pink ostrich boas
(she swears she only uses her hands).

past the pimps in shimmer suits
and platform shoes;
their beacon-wide brims
casting shadows
over greed-grimed faces.
(touch but don't look)
(or pay up and leave)

past the cathedral ceiling
of Motown and Malcolm X
whole souls cry

miles from The Hush Room
where drag queens
and faggots
have to feel it to believe it
in compromising positions
that guess at the truth
from midnight
to 9 a.m.

removed from the spaces
where men don't
have penises
but Gods of Thunder
and every woman thinks
a man will be different
for her

nowhere near the crooning
of The Supremes
(ooh, baby love, my baby love)
vs. The Impressions
(people get ready there's a train a-coming)

past the hate crimes
and lynch mobs
and street justice
(we're through the looking glass now)
all men
whether naked
or in costume
are created
equal