"What will your lady have", perilous but polite
Asked the casually armed voluntary waiter, charmed
The reservoir of my soul, tanked, perception
Flung me over to the next seat
On my right as the scriptures never rapturusly
Foretold, sitting, gleaming
Imagine this brave new world of possibilities
Playing the piano through a frenetic rendition
Of a hunched nosed, smooth skinned Shostakovich
Imagine, visiting her brand new apartment
Building function out of forced time apart
A different all together kind
Elongated nose, pale and contrasty Nureyev
Shipwrecked on a desert island
Weak, fragile or so it seems, just ripe for the taking
In stark contrast, but of similar resulting dynamic
Other, strong, independent or so it seems
Not a single gripe in the making
"You might call it love and she might call it sex
Indispensable, just like lust and logic.
"You write with your hand, but it's Rimbaud's arm."
