Was it the expat jazz club, Celtic pizzeria, Symbionese
tea-room with bongos, Bambis, and bingo?
The color of a dream in which verbs took aim,
fresh out of artificial control?
The pedantic grip of a woman’s tax-
free thighs, perfumed ‘intense indigo’?
Stars painted on curtains and wall, meek
attendants christened ‘Always’ and ‘Constance’?
This place, this ethos, this attempt to flag
and label the triumphant pushpin is causing
a noticeable tremor in your lover’s kleptic fingers.
Sir.
Was it the curvy husk of a palm spanking velvet?
Was it the failure of the minor key bridge,
midway Madam’s wicked song?
You paid for exactly what you were given.
Will it be the usual table this evening?
And morning as well, perhaps?
Please follow me, Sir.
There’s someone who needs a word with you.