Reserve

It is the Phaeton

husk

of night.

It is the Club

car

of a train rolling

no where.

You are sunk

into the cigar rolled

depths

of one of two

Chesterfield Chairs.

They face me.

I have opened a

fan,

an ostrich feather

fan,

between us like a

wall,

to deny you any

glimpse

of my face;

any glimpse that

might tell you

Just How Bad It Is

this time.

The black plumage

falls like a

veil,

to deny me any

glimpse of the

Impossibly Pretty Girl

pressing her

way

into your lap.

From behind the black

quills

I hear her

giggle;

yes, really,

giggle,

and I wait for the

expected, for the

attendant

Thud

of her sweet young body

on the floor as you

stand

deftly, unceremoniously,

to tell me

It Is Time For Bed.

But it does not sound,

The Thud;

all that sounds is the

not-quite silent spill of

smoke,

the smoke you hate,

all around us, all

tangled

in the giggle of the

girl.

I lower the feathers to

slice-eye view; my out

breath waves them like

water on my cheek. I look

only

to the chair, to the empty

chair

beside you.

My rumpled wrap

lies

along its shiny back like the

skin of some long consumed

beast.

My strappy shoes,

Our Favourite Shoes,

stand empty on the India

floor, leaning drunkenly

against

each other for

support.

My kohl-heavy lashes

lower to the down;

I Am So Tired.

And I feel your

stare,

clean and keen and

shrill

willing me to

Look

at you.