Opera

  
Two glasses on the table
standing tall and crystal clear,
Strangers, we talked ,sherry to be safe
waiting as we sat in velvet chairs,
curved arms and sculptured legs
with delicate feet stretching, languid
seducing as we spoke, choices.
conversation charged and anxious
thrilled in expectations.

We made our choice, simple melon.
This a prelude to an opera.
Called to the table, I held her chair
“Thank you “ she said and smiled.
The spoon to her lips, sweet flesh,
were I the spoon  I the melon
the meal not yet begun!
I approved the wine, white,not too chilled;
the waiter poured and left the bottle
in the ice and water;
We raised our glasses, laughed a little
the overture  begun.
Her shoulders hidden by her hair
black as night blue hints in the lamp-light,
her ring-less fingers gentle with the goblet.
Soon,  time for coffee. .   .  .  
Across the  table we talked into the night
until, in deference to the waiter,
we rose and made our way to the sinuous stairs.
Taking my proffered arm she dreamed with me,
as we leaned to each climbing the coiling stairway,
found a door named twenty two,
Overture fading entering the stage,
curtains sliding open. The opera now begun.
A scene set, sheets drawn back ,inviting .
The shower warm and intimate,
Bathrobes slipping to the floor,
she knelt, as  though to pray,
yet sought another heaven.
  .  .  .