Poem of the Month
Eliot at The Albemarle
Morning birds chit chit on the streets as he enters
its tall gray,
his return punctual to a fault, with his almost smile
and a face the inscrutable mask behind which words burn.
There were three to choose from and the fourth,
topless, held her left breast, clutching it in her hand
as if it were a heart
in need of stat. Nipple stencil not in vogue yet.
Three—a blonde, brunette and redhead
wearing the usual flimsy chemises of the day, seated in a booth
with a red velvet tablecloth and doily running the length
of the sentence he had—three weeks in Marsgate
to feel his way through The Fire Sermon. All in baby dolls.
He went for the redhead. Her nonchalance appealed
more than dyed black hair and tiara. The blonde, emaciated,
had a jaw could rip a man.