Portrait Of Quentin Crisp (Poetry)

It’s a task that’s almost painful
to sketch the man I see
his brow arched and disdainful
he sits impassively
I note each shadow’s aging
the way his frown lines run
and sense a quiet raging
he loathes just everyone

He poses uncomplaining
but God knows what he thinks
he’s so adroit at feigning
composure like a sphinx

Not one wry smile — lips tell no lies
sheer murder skulks behind those eyes