Gay Pride

While listening to the moaning of a ghostly choir of lost lovers, I try to tell you the truth, half hoping you don't hear me, as I desperately try to expel something stuck in my soul I can't bear to live with, but don't want to die with.

With a furtive sideways glance, I peer through a half-open door to behold a body gnarled like an old cherry tree.

Exposed shaft at half-mast, he stands between an iconic David, beautiful in his awkward adolescent grace, and a redolent, overripe Sheila harlot.

As though in a pas de deux, he moves as I move.

Is he my partner, or my mirror image? When the mirror shatters, the truth will out, with half-truth seen through a door half-open.

The Half-Open Door, Henry Morgenthau III, from his book, A Sunday in Purgatory.

While listening to the moaning of a ghostly choir of lost lovers, I try to tell you the truth, half hoping you don't hear me, as I desperately try to expel something stuck in my soul I can't bear to live with, but don't want to die with.

With a furtive sideways glance, I peer through a half-open door to behold a body gnarled like an old cherry tree.

Exposed shaft at half-mast, he stands between an iconic David, beautiful in his awkward adolescent grace, and a redolent, overripe Sheila harlot.

As though in a pas de deux, he moves as I move.

Is he my partner, or my mirror image? When the mirror shatters, the truth will out, with half-truth seen through a door half-open.

The Half-Open Door, Henry Morgenthau III, from his book, A Sunday in Purgatory.