Vicious or Virtuous?

Metallic disks land on a surface

Causing a sound more recognisable

Than ever before.  To tell the solid

Cost from the worthless losses;

That five pence that isn’t worth the creak

Of bones to pick up.

A camera lens whirs to focus on a hunched

Body.  One of the crowd in particular

Distinct, only, because it looks

Forlorn enough to be a threat to

Something.

A cycle of conversation fills the room

Asking meaningless, roundabout, questions for the sake of making

Noise.  Repetitive exchanges of false

Smiles and bravado that shield the truth

From the handshake.

A handheld spotlight skims the gravel, revealing

Fleeting instances of milk-soaked silence.

Darkened feet tread over a foreign space

Which whispers with frustration at its

Invasion.

A loop of stern faces around a desk too large

To make contact with anything other than

Words.  Each man seeks to draw eyes to his

Point of the ring, without disclosing the secrets

He holds to his chest.

Wrists, shackled by counterfeit silver,

Steeled against the disgrace of a head bowed

By superior hands into a prayer, in the back

Of a car who’s doors can only open from the

Outside.

Despite cuff, coins and courtesy, the circle

Will inhale.  The peak reaching skywards, extending

The lows into dry soil.  My path has not yet led

In one direction or the other, but I see a turn

Before me and hope, somehow, for

Neither.