In a suburban train station I read Carrowmore with a butcher noise
from a seven dollar Alibris.com paperback,
when she asked me,
in that way she asked me,
reclining on the brocade and flounce, with her fireplace and all
the old masters crackling on a wall,
with all those eyes,
for a word,
and I said, “Money—
I said, “I know you women
know pain when you see it, real pain,
when you see it.
Will you help me love me while I show you?”
A lady’s man, one of them cackled from the back bench
of the Glen Ellyn train station
I put the book back in my bag,
for the cover
of the next issue
of ‘Boys Will Be Boys With Money,’ and I was left
bereft at the window bundled in my soft red scarf,
and I couldn’t bear their shoulders
I moved to get out,
where the winter was coming down
when one of them goes, he doesn’t like us.
But you know all about that kind of thing.
So what about that kiss,
that warm rejoinder,
or that goblet brimming
with Chateau Lafite?
can we talk about Emily D. awhile?
Ask me for a Word—