Before the disrobed days of spring, but on
no special night, we are the masking snow.
When you put on your suit and tie, I know
to shave my legs, the bath half full, then coax
the curls to come, to stay, and prick my ears
until they bleed then stud them with my charms.
All done so I will glow for you tonight,
this no-particular night of ours.
Inside the restaurant it takes some time
to hear the quiet candlelight that warms
the room and makes the reddish windows blush.
Our coats checked in and seats pulled out, we wander
through the "bill of fare," aware that there is caviar
but stifling our surprise. We make our wish
and grin: Beef Wellington for two. We eat
our courses thoughtfully, saving room for cake.
We linger past respectable, until
the story's stale, until the candles slack
to sighs and windows turn to black from red.
We leave to pay the bill. With worries put aside,
we play our part so well, hesitating only now:
The host says he'll bring up our car, but you
say that the walk's not far, and pink creeps in,
the first, on this no-particular night.
And so we walk, then wait to walk again
once we board the city's number seven.
The drunk across from me peers at my dress's
edge and I'm afraid my slippers will soon fade.
I press your hand, but you already know;
Your eyes are locked with mine, which watch the street
for signs-because the light has long been gone,
and we don't want to be revealed too soon.
You turn the key; I push the door. We've reached
our borrowed home. And now we must strip down,
remove the hat, let down the hair, and slip
the satin off until the callused skin
and telling scars appear. In flannel gowns
we think of candlelight that's so unlike
the light that slinks through crooked blinds from streets
below, just as it does on every night.