So you aren't lithe, French, Mexican, an artiste,
long-limbed, the dancing lover-muse of Degas,
Gauguin, Matisse or Pissarro; you own two
records and no player and the older you get,
the less you can sing, but the more you feel
your throat swelling.
You can always solace yourself by wrapping
a faux-impressionist painting around your hips
and walking flat-footedly across town on a cool
evening in July, a weathered book under your arm.
No comments:
Post a Comment