Reel-to-reel, pox on the living, movie prize
of some long ago actress, not me,
and she shall witness our breasts fly out
in a minor scene, waxed, shine of stiletto heels,
fur voltage, radiant ringlets ringed in smoke.
Do you have a light?
Enter Mr. Satie and his cup full of slow,
enter a room where I lose you to the plink of a piano
player, a bar assigned scintillating, watch the jazz.
Tilt view almost missed as dusk steals the set into blankness.
My exquisite wound.
This the part where the credits roll.
Hand of glances, catch as catch can.
Please place your headphones in the seat back in front of you.
Please exit through the doors marked exit.
Step out onto the boulevard.
It could be this or any city.