Quiet Dragon

“an evil quiet,” Luciano says,
he has been thinking it since walking in—
white marble floors, photos on the mantle,
grand staircase leading to the upper, evil rooms.
he wants a word that means mostly, “guilty,” while
summing up the years-long battle to catch their Red Dragon

Simon stands, says nothing, merely takes it in—
the wide open opulence, late modern,
mirrored in the feel of it—
spacious and terse; lofty he feels
and operatic in a way—large egos, small souls
and a chorus of little voices, saying something…

“it’s not an evil quiet,” he says
“it’s the kind that signals error,
“The unassuming kind, unexamined—
“quiet house, quiet car, quiet night-time trips
“to theatres, art shows, operas,
“it’s the quiet of collapse, the estrangement from civility,”

he takes a cigar from an ornamental box,
smells it, takes smokeless puffs
“I knew the Brosnans,” he says, “they couldn’t be further from evil,
“but I guess they were, because this is their home.”
again he stops, samples the quiet, listens to the voices;
We’re here, help us please, hear us pray!”

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can also donate some of your hard-earned dollars down below—that’s money to me, for free!


Gabriel Muoio




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