Emanation I

This emanation creeps through the air,
particle by particle, insidious, until the atmosphere 
exhales unease,
palpable thickness of ooze.

Silences jarr, compatibility lost, holes
in the group gape with the presence of a cold force,
a bold force, too bold for softer women to be at ease.
We all suffer these meetings, Tuesdays.

In dense, shifting air, the creak of chairs
is loud.  Their alliance is a shifting of eyes:
mute contact.  Enemy spies
sit near.

This colourful room doesn't camoflage the small-bore 
weapons hidden up their sleeves.  Between gazing at the floor
and intermittent coughs, cigarettes are rolled
and feet are swung.  Old jokes are told.

I'd swing for her, that one, 
with her pretensions and her sandals and her chums.
She's dangerous like a man, self-obsessed and armed for war.
I'd swing for her, she's such a fucking bore.

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