He flips through the

glossy pages of

emaciated boy-toys who,

the day before the shoot,

probably hung

around corners, but for

the shoot are

wearing gazillion dollar

pants, underpants,

shorts, shirts, suits, boots,

big, big boots, and

dress-like

things that hang off

skinny, bony shoulders

seemingly,

seductively alluring

elderly men who fondle

the slick, slippery pages

on a Sunday morning;

clunky, fat-soled

leather shoes in a circle

on the page ranging in price

from $495 to $1495 either

clockwise or counter clock-

wise; a big, strong,

beautiful, blond, woman

athlete

staring straight

out from the page

almost defiantly at

those same old men;

a story of black

market trade in

dead, taxidermied, all

gussied up, heading for

extinction, rare animal

species

who will find a home

on floors,

pedestals and

walls of dark paneled

rooms almost never

entered for fear

of discovery, except

once in a while,

by men who feel

sexual arousal in

the anticipation of

just turning the

door knob;

and then, right,

smack-dab

in the middle of all

the garishness and

tawdriness, which

cost a tree or

two their lives,

a lovely, little poem of

a family picnic on

a sunny, summer

afternoon.