the lozenged mirror of gray cut glass reversely
smoked the sharkskin mints of an iridescent suit,
exposing the reet petite of blushing diamonds
and ravishing the violet heart of albino blues-
before or after the clubs, I don't recall-
but there was something about those buttons and stripes
that really blew the metaphor I was hoping for:
people decking people
decks peopling decks.
something like that.
chalk stripes are often too regular to reveal the true crime-
true crime requires nylon, stilettos and blood
if you want to rise to the scarlet pitch of pearly perversity.
this is where the charcoal danger comes-
bid another suit and do a brother solid;
the other recourse, that apology most profound:
a stage-managed bow that reeks of powdered lilacs.
adding a feather would, redolently, brown
a book-pressed rose discovered too late,
but, man, it would also reveal, in spades,
the strangely dealt trump of yellow sprouts
that matured, slowly, in the april rain.
the age of the manly kowtow had morphed
into the timely flutter of dying blossoms,
blossoms that dropped pink and white
and made me cry most of that afternoon
as I watched them inevitably shrivel
into a dry, lifeless brown.
I am only telling you this now because
the beige spines of your cursive history
have been chewed by long-eared greed
and, frankly, it does not matter anymore.
you closed a door; I closed one too.