Reserve

It is the Phaeton
husk
of night.

It is the Club
car
of a train rolling
no where.

You are sunk
into the cigar rolled
depths
of one of two
Chesterfield Chairs.

They face me.

I have opened a
fan,
an ostrich feather
fan,
between us like a
wall,
to deny you any
glimpse
of my face;
any glimpse that
might tell you
Just How Bad It Is
this time.

The black plumage
falls like a
veil,
to deny me any
glimpse of the
Impossibly Pretty Girl
pressing her
way 
into your lap.

From behind the black
quills
I hear her
giggle;
yes, really,
giggle,
and I wait for the
expected, for the
attendant
         Thud
of her sweet young body
on the floor as you 
stand
deftly, unceremoniously,
to tell me
It Is Time For Bed.

But it does not sound,
The Thud;
all that sounds is the 
not-quite silent spill of
smoke,
the smoke you hate,
all around us, all
tangled
in the giggle of the
girl.

I lower the feathers to
slice-eye view; my out
breath waves them like
water on my cheek.  I look
only
to the chair, to the empty
chair
beside you.

My rumpled wrap
lies
along its shiny back like the
skin of some long consumed
beast. 
My strappy shoes,
Our Favourite Shoes,
stand empty on the India
floor, leaning drunkenly
against
each other for
support.

My kohl-heavy lashes
lower to the down;
I   Am   So   Tired.

And I feel your
stare,
clean and keen and
shrill
willing me to
               Look
at you.
  



©sdrogers 22 november 2012

2 thoughts on “Reserve

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