by Regan Chern
I had the privilege of interviewing an incarcerated PhD.
The hotel lost my laundry.
Went without underwear.
Wore my nylons.
Drew a line from my heel to upper thigh with eyeliner.
Ordered room service. Typed till the half-hour
About the decade of protest. An ambulance,
A police car passed.
The final half-hour was wasted.
Lit a cigarette.
Burnt it to its conclusion.
The lobby carpet was stitched with menthol.
His girlfriend was to meet me.
At that time, I felt
My lack of bra would be obvious,
It said I was a rogue journalist.
An unprofessional, stripping
Vinyl pants off sweaty rockstars; interviewing
Lyndon from the other end of his bath.
She’d studied law at Howard,
Worked at the NCNW.
It’s more a duty than it is work, she’d said.
I feel the same, I’d said.
Pay must’ve been piss poor.
In him, I had hoped for the decade’s answer.
She cozied up beside him,
Cold, hard steel bench.
The interview blurred into familiar talking heads.
When we left, she bent over to her bag⎯
Saw she’d no bra⎯ and felt no shame.
Author Bio:
Regan is in his final year of a BFA (Creative Writing) at QUT etc.… do you really need to know more than that? You could be reading my work instead, you know. It’s far better than any dry self-aggrandising drivel that I could’ve written for this bio.
If you’d like to contact me, email me at reganchern@gmail.comthor Bio: