Beneath ice-tipped oaks,
half-angry, amused, wandering
beside a party of the beautiful–
women in evening sheath and
wrap coats, Chloe satchels, furs;
men at their MacAllan and Maduros,
silken in sleek Zegna and Brioni,
I came upon her, reading Ferrante
on a daybed, Manhattan
in a chilled tumbler on the floor.
Rising barefoot, lost in lyrics of
Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered,
she introduced libraries of
port decanter, heirloom Bible,
framed Manet and Chagall,
memoir, museum catalogs, 1st editions.
Reaching from shadows shaped
by Lalique Tourbillons, a jadeite lamp,
she disrupts a promising kiss with
a double rye and rocks,
fresh gloss of Tilbury Queen Red.
Failing to recall evasions
for better judgement,
we concede the moment,
carrying it to a corner of the couch.
Settling in for snow’s fall,
the body shifts, my cigar
burns a fine long ash.
Combing out her hair, she hums,
Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered.
Coming to the verandah,
I don’t know how to sit,
what posture to take.
Living in the lyrics,
I’m laughing at myself.