A conference theatre, unfilled, the field; green folding chairs, strewn, the crop.
Some poor woman, older, robust, sexless to me, sits, cross angled.
Her seat folds, becomes a vice; her fingers caught, trapped, raped, crushed.
Her shouts scorch, stark pain, boiling crescendo. People rush. Not me.
I am shock still, stunned by lust, by shame.
I can’t forgive me this. I can’t.
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