Inside the house there was a certain cretin
I’d known as a boy, smoking his pipe
By the cracked window that looked on the rain,
And a fat cat who pranced along the keys
Of a piano with three broken molars.

Amid a fragrance of pretentious fare,
Tiny pastries and grapes
In ethereal blue sauce, sautéed à l’amour fou,
Blossomed a dense night, so wet
And unbearably sad, so remote
And nostalgic and crowded,
And then, up ahead,
There was someone
Who resembled you,

Sitting next
To a concierge who wrote eclogues,
A harp player with acne,
And a redhead I’d met in the nineties,
All cleavage
And winks, looking drunk and no longer
The looker she’d been.
There were, such a prodigy, whispers
Of whimpering breezes that whirled
In the twin lunar swing of your chest,
A spasm of memory and impudent
Relish, that’s all, and a couple
Who fought in the hall, and she told him:
You’re really such a
A son of a bitch.

In a cloud of smoke
Stood a butcher
With delicate hands
And a small, squeaky voice,
A playwright with dandruff
Who wouldn’t shut up,
And an amnesic girl
With intense, auburn eyes
Who, less often than not, is my accomplice
One minute at a time.
That wasn’t our night,
So that was that.

On the sofa, ignoring the commotion,
A bald man read Emerson
With rapt attention:
Consistency, he said as he sneezed
On his plate, is the hobgoblin
Of a small mind.
Ah, yes, yes, replied I,
What an evening, and say, by the way,
Wipe your nose, my good man.
Next to him sat
A sweaty office clerk
Who munched on fried tofu
With chives.

There were fluttering trails
Of rose petals and butterflies
Marking the way
To the bathroom.
There were splashes of bitters and murmurs
That weren’t expectant,
A poor, trampled daisy,
And a stripper with bunions
Who hated the rain
But thought highly of Vivaldi.
There were two flies
On the lamp, a sharp cackle,
A guffaw, and a cell phone that twittered
The despondent appeals
Of a cuckold.

There was also yours truly, wide-eyed,
Pushing through
As best I could, and stumbling
Morosely, and then
I got off the linoleum
And feared
That I was good and lost,
Lost for good and falling
Reluctantly, that is,
Or else longing to fall
In love with you, if only,
And that’s the rub,
I’d known where you were.