Acoustically speaking, this room is ideal
Or the idea of something vaguely boring
In the flat light of mid-century modern.
I think of floor hockey and glimpses of
Things inappropriate clad in wood grain
And designer maxi dresses.
When the phone rings it sounds like gunfire
And gray suited bodies duck for cover for
Fear of the word, “reservations”. A word
Reserved for the unfortunate souls surrounded
By windowless brick and taupe dry-wall.
Without marble or breath the door swings
Like eternities piled one on top of the next
And pouted in silhouette stands a nameless
Venus chimerical in her unlikeliness as if
Feathered wings would not surprise me.
The slip covers creak like the floorboards under
The heeled wake of her designer breeze. She
Moves as if on ice skates pattered about by
Dark men in shirt sleeves who speak quickly
Of the antiquity of nothing and fine fabrics.
I imagine things in Russian tones and hazel eyes
Like the Chinese new year draped in the mystery
Behind Chanel glasses. She looks toward my
Position and I am embolden like Hotspur on the
Dover strand with the millennium approaching.
Stanzas of the ancients pass in unspoken
Volumes in the distance between our briefly
Unbroken gaze. I picture the mating of dolphins
And their digital whispers and compose a verse
Of biology that suspends the very cosmos from
Perfectly tuned piano-wire. And like that she
Coasts to conclusion before my eyes with medical
Precision and Thoreauvian logic. Her coral lips part
And I witness the vulnerability of a world laid bare
To the temperament of her Jacobean beauty.
I am defended with breath that is deep and
Taut muscles when she speaks simply. For a moment
I am entranced by works of music and balletic
Gestures. “My key Please”. But I am thrown
Into the third act of an obscure opera written
In the obsolete vernacular of a civilization gone
Undiscovered in the waters of the Agaean or some
Desert region where mountains once stood between
The fingers of allegretto descants and iridescent
Modulations her voice contorts into real time.
“My key please”.
And her echo collides with
The glass as it rattles in the window seatings.
The opera now transforms into daytime drama
And the obscure civilizations fall into regional
Sparring. My hair stands on end.
She departs amidst the draconian scurry of ball
Bearings across the floor and I am left bathing in
The heat of the floor lamps and considering an age of
Monochromatic flower stems that lurk in a crystal
Vase not feet from the smell of her shadow.