Did I Mention That My Wife Died? She Was In Spain.
The moon pops-up
from behind a jazz club.
It's snowing, whitened tufts stick
on the slack wires, canvas awnings
of restaurants fill with snow.
It's New York time.
Drivers slow as though falling asleep.
A worthless cold front settles in.
Waiting for a traffic light at 82nd,
I know I've lost my certainty.
The Carlyle is so beautiful tonight.
A small orchestra in tuxedos,
women chipped from ice smile
just for asking. A girl I know
shows up, we drink quite a bit
and I can see the Bonwit Teller
brassiere she is famous for,
I touch her surreptitiously.
She recites names of Parfum,
she sounds French:
We kiss the way ugly people kiss.
Rowing a boat the wrong way.
In the dark vestibule she will not
take down her russet underpants.
She leaves for her second date.
The snow has stopped, I refuse
a taxi, the Nigerian driver so lonely
with just himself in the yellow moon.
Walking home, a Schnitzer
with a bobbed tail looks over.
Jeweled collar. Before I can move
she shits divinely on 5th Avenue.
Several smaller planets drift by.
My fortune writes itself out.
No oracle appears, and I'm caught
on a leash, drunk as a Rahv
and washed-up in polar air.