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.