Dinner Party

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I value pornography for what it illustrates
about our ever-changing sociological construct
says the balding man swirling his merlot

like a bloody hurricane in his glass
and as I contemplate how full of shit he is,
I remember that first heady rush

of shame and glory after somebody
stole a couple Hustlers off a swap meet table
and carried them around the playground

long after the teachers had gone home
and the sun was setting behind swing sets
lined up like trebuchets, carried them about

like some kind of witch doctor cure
or the secret names of angels, revealed
to whomever had the guts to ask.