in memory of Barnaby Wilde

“Why not?” she says.

“Can’t”

“Not even a little bit?”

“Forget it”

“You’ve upset me now.”

“You really want me to?”

“Yes please”

“Pass me the ashtray”

“Ok.” Whispering discretely to the nearby crowd: “I think he’s gonna write a poem”

“Oh, is he? How wonderful!’ The chorus chants, immersed in paroxysms of levity and giggling hushed by a sudden innocent blush shared quietly between them.

“Could you write one about me?” she asks haughtily.

“What about you?”

“My indescribable beauty.” More explosions of embarrassed surprise, their legs quivering with the anticipation at the sound of verses yet unsaid.

“It’s gonna be tough if it’s indescribable”

“About my features, then, sweetheart. Just show them how good you are with that pen”

“Oh, do!”

Calmly lit the cigarette rests uneasily on fingers splayed upon the glassy polished wood seen only in the best houses. The chorus now assembled, he mulls over a word and a globule of saliva before swallowing one and mouthing the other.

“He’s so cont-em-plative,” the blond exclaims, forcing the syllables into a word she read last week.

“Speak, honey.”

“When I’m ready.”

Gasping smoke he forces a smile

“You see girls? My husband the poet!” A shrill orgasmic muttering flies up into the fervor of their touching legs, felt deep within them somehow inspired by a smiling expression, half-felt, plastered on his face.

“What should we do, sweetheart? While you’re writing, I mean.”

“Why don’t you take the girls into the kitchen for a drink, dear. I’ve just gotta sit for a second.”

“Alright. Girls, let’s get some martinis.”

Haltingly striding they pace toward the swinging kitchen door, turning sporadically to see his back hunched over another empty page, sizzling in their canvas shoes at the sadness of his blue-smoke sighs let out toward the sky.

“Isn’t it wonderful, Alice? You are so lucky.” The multitudinous voices chant in sequence, smiling through jealously-clenched bleached teeth.

“It’s amazing what he does. To just put a pen to paper like that . I can’t believe what he comes up with sometimes.”

He sips his whiskey and slowly stubs his cigarette.

“That book of poems just came out last night, didn’t it?”

“Very highly esteemed, I heard.”

“Yes. He dedicated it to me.”

“Aww. How wonderful!” They flush in anticipation of receiving the steady cadence of his words again, hearing those lilting lines read out as that smile spilt over their eager faces.