and the offenders retreated out the door.
The chief heckler hissed “Faggot!” as he passed.
The manager still refused to identify himself.
We shall find out his name in the morning
when I get all my networks plugged in.
When I walked out the door,
I looked like any other fat old bald-headed man.
I can just hear my husband if I dare tell him about it.
“Lordy mercy, chile, can’t even get out the country
more than a couple of months and you go acting
like a country bumpkin. Don’t you know in the city
just to keep quiet and mind your own business?!”
He’s right, of course. But I will never forget the kiss
which the guy in the red dress threw to me
as we boarded separate cars on the PATH train.
It was better than all the candles and the incense
and the glorious Bach as only a NYC organist can play it.
We queans must stick together, or
our tiaras aren’t worth a tinker’s malediction.
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