We met over the course of time, have become

Friends, of a sort, meeting monthly

At the Algonquin, taking turns with the check,

It's easier on the waiters that way, a small kindness, 

Ordering several bottles of wine and a hearty meal.

It comes out even in the long run, we suppose.

It doesn't matter, and it isn't the point.

Though some see us as a perversity, it really is

Nothing more than a tea & sympathy group,

Despite the glowering dark looks and snarls.

Among ourselves there is a recognition

Of sensibilities, and this is, generally,

What we talk about, this matter of perception,

Ours being pre-Copernican, and the tone

Is one of commiseration for perceived wrongs,

Though, over the decades we've "moved on,"

The topics ranging more broadly, from

The weather and the state of our gardens,

To the antics of Kim Jung-Un, Vlad Putin,

Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, to name a few,

Deconstructing their success in the face

Of near universal condemnation, or at least

United Nations condemnation, to the lesser

Antics, the laughable antics, of lesser leaders

Of lesser nations, raping their charges

While anyone who cares to watch, watches.

No one cares. Even these fascinating topics

Can hold our interest for so long. Inevitably,

It comes back to us, our slights and hurts

As we lick our wounds, sigh at the injustices,

Shake our weary heads in dismay as one

Bottle after another is emptied, as the waiter

Brings around the dessert tray and we tarry

Over brandy and dobos tort, quietly belching

Behind heavy cloth napkins, we fine men,

We the reviled, we the famously misunderstood,

We the condemned, destined to forever wander

Through history as exemplars of the human

Psyche gone wrong, we second and third

And fourth tier villains, we, who understood,

Or thought we did, that between success

And failure there lies a fine line, falling

On the wrong side of it, but, by God we tried.

There is Old Iago and his boon companion

Macbeth, they are inseparable, there is

Old Javert, there is Old Humbert Humbert,

There is Old Legree, there is Old Kurst, there is

Old Bill Sikes, there is Old d'Urberville, there is

Old Ahab, there is Old Satan, and here,

The newest member, the quiet one, the worst

Of them all, is me, though my faults are real

And theirs lie on pages. Even so, as, bit

By corporeal bit, my being begins its journey

Toward not being, that very being is becoming

Assimilated into this rogues' gallery of villains,

And though it my be vain on my part to sit

At the table with them, I will, and do, and should.