window fragment

Apollinaire told me to ‘kiss only in elevators
when you become old’, supposedly to
remember the feeling first felt
-of the stomach churning with
enough energy to produce a pearl
Hey love? I don’t know how this ends

Tourmaline eyes, you are
dancing on your own to Carole King
lit by the amber glow of the jukebox
while we sit around tapping our
fingers awkwardly, not having the courage
to come dance with you (lest it
become all too clear how inferior we
really are next to your slow liquid dancing)
So we down another drink to
dull any feelings of inadequacy

You placed a part of Apollinaire’s window
on a lamp post, since it had
served you well. And I could have
cried when you told me I
belonged in Paris.