8.10.2022

to brush their luxury, their meticulous weaves across your lips

Is it overly romantic 
to want to see 
through spectacles, not glasses, 
to wish the sign 
on the door read 
oculist instead of 
ophthalmologist, 
to desire a man 
who owns a stack 
of long-sleeved dress shirts, 
to cradle those linens and silks, 
to brush their luxury, 
their meticulous weaves 
across your lips, 
to feel pleasure as you 
watch him hold 
your favorite—periwinkle 
—the one with nearly invisible 
pink flecks, imagine 
what he's thinking as he slides 
each arm into its sleeve, 
pops each button 
into place, pats down his front 
and tucks the hem into pleated 
unbelted trousers? 
You wonder if he wonders 
about words, how they can change 
everything, East Egg 
to West Egg and back again, 
the distance, far and not far, 
between the valley of ashes 
and this place, where at dusk 
the gulls call madly 
as the city lights up the sound. 
Is it foolish to mourn 
the eras of elegance 
and danger that have passed 
you by and will you 
take this chance 
at love, a gangster 
with a wardrobe full of shirts, 
because aren't all men invented, 
riffraff still clinging to the bottom 
of their shoes, and isn't he a man 
who promises, promises, and 
won't you choose 
to believe him? 
 

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