Your Esquire Shoot
made Armani suit,
a blue tab collar, a
pocket square to match
the azure face of a six
thousand dollar
watch, and a woolen
peacoat, over-the-
shoulder. You
stand there, dripping
sex appeal while
techs fix your hair,
find the light that
gets at that gletz
in your eye, and snap
and re-snap the shutters
on your million
dollar smile. Look
at you. Don’t you
make a marvel of a
mannequin? You, in
the swaddle of your
moment—Aren’t you
the goods, the hood’s
winged ornament,
the pipe smoke’s
spice! You’re looking
fine, my friend. It
must be nice.
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