The green chintz curtains
hide the sunlight,
a half-smoked menthol cigarette
in an overlarge ashtray
gives off its fragrance
of…spinster;
from the next room
a snatch of Gershwin
is trying to escape from
the ornate radiogram speaker;
on the floor peering outwards
from a cracked-frame photograph,
the younger version of long-ago
assets tightly wrapped in
a candy colored sweater;
stretched taut across the fake persian rug,
purple stains on a silver silk dressing gown,
contemporary and cold,
the cadaver…
in the doorway,
wide checked lapels heaving,
he writes in his notebook,
” 6 o’clock…Dinner…”
