Post by mfwilkie on Feb 15, 2009 3:59:10 GMT -5
In Gene's noble house....
the walls of his salon speak
with a voice you don't expect
from the assertiveness of red;
it's a room that hasn't over-
stated itself and yet it flames
your sense of comfort, so much so,
you find it hard to keep your shoes
on in the midst of well-dressed guests
and their best behavior.
You want to make the den your own,
send everybody home (send Gene to
David's for the night) and fill the hours
you've stolen with classical jazz,
the BeeGee's and every bit of MoTown
you can squeeze from the radio now that
those shoes of yours are finally off and
there's no one around to guilt you about
the relationship your feet are having
with the cushions on the sofa.
But you don't, because you need to walk
those shoes to the dining room and settle
a miff among a fifth of poets who can't
decide what shade of elegance has been
put to use or why they feel so at ease
in the company of crystal and lace. They
debate these things with both cheeks full
of Sherry's good food. Your shoe catches
a crumb and for once your glad you kept
your feet in your shoes.
The best of evenings always saves the best for last,
though. Imagine the best, a kitchen of brightness
and brass, three pairs of hands passing eclectics and
reclaimed glass, remnants of attentive hours, from
one generation to another to the dishwasher. Imagine
the vibration of women's words with no need for poetic
device. Imagine the air begining to chill; imagine Cher
asleep beside a puppy and one of my shoes.
the walls of his salon speak
with a voice you don't expect
from the assertiveness of red;
it's a room that hasn't over-
stated itself and yet it flames
your sense of comfort, so much so,
you find it hard to keep your shoes
on in the midst of well-dressed guests
and their best behavior.
You want to make the den your own,
send everybody home (send Gene to
David's for the night) and fill the hours
you've stolen with classical jazz,
the BeeGee's and every bit of MoTown
you can squeeze from the radio now that
those shoes of yours are finally off and
there's no one around to guilt you about
the relationship your feet are having
with the cushions on the sofa.
But you don't, because you need to walk
those shoes to the dining room and settle
a miff among a fifth of poets who can't
decide what shade of elegance has been
put to use or why they feel so at ease
in the company of crystal and lace. They
debate these things with both cheeks full
of Sherry's good food. Your shoe catches
a crumb and for once your glad you kept
your feet in your shoes.
The best of evenings always saves the best for last,
though. Imagine the best, a kitchen of brightness
and brass, three pairs of hands passing eclectics and
reclaimed glass, remnants of attentive hours, from
one generation to another to the dishwasher. Imagine
the vibration of women's words with no need for poetic
device. Imagine the air begining to chill; imagine Cher
asleep beside a puppy and one of my shoes.
