Friday, August 22, 2014

Another Round of Spencer Tracys for Table Six



She sits there in her monkey hair jacket,
its long black strands draped across the leather seat
her jewelry gleams her bright vermillion lipstick glows
in this dimly-lit corner of the Driftwood Room, where
we clink glasses filled with fizzing cocktails named
for old-time movie stars and starlets, pluck olives
from a dinky bowl and carefully spear
mushrooms from the sizzling pan. 
Our favorite waiter glides by occasionally, his smile
simultaneously ingratiating and condescending.
I don’t remember what we’re celebrating.
The mirrored wall deepens and doubles
the tiny room, and we sneak glances at our
stylish doppelgangers, her in her pillbox hat
with its shimmering rooster feathers,
me in my sharkskin suit and fedora,
both of us pretending that we’re in another time,
that we’re of another class.
We nibble gorgonzola cheesecake, crack the crust
of an amber pond of crème brulee.
We are overflowing with charm and charisma,
always ready with a quip or rapid rejoinder,
lobbing witty banter across the table.
We have stepped out of some sepia-toned
dream, some shadowy screwball romance,
and would gladly slip back into it
if only her phone would stop buzzing
deep inside her alligator handbag

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