Feather
Somehow, I thought you’d want to eat alone,
A state you’d grown to master—brandy glass,
A man behind your chair to fill your plate,
A girl to bring you chocolate mousse, then candy.
As another poet wrote: What do
I know of love’s austere and lonely offices?
You know I’d do most anything for you.
You ask to see “your” beach—the one you call
Your paradise. I drive you there. We stare
Into the green. Those times I thought about
In lines above were times when you were fair,
as they said then, and young, and coming out
to your society. And nothing’s like that
today. No balls, no fancy, feathered hats.
