New Work with the Old

He looked very old.
His back was curved
like a questionmark,
why he was called that.
With his clothes off
in the dark Adore
could see nothing.
I should say, most
could not, she could,
she could see like a cat.
Naked, she was sleek,
rippling, delighting
in all she loved to do.
He was not as old
as he looked. She was
as old as he looked,
and she looked young.
They were opposed
forces and merged.
They made love well.

Juan went out,
went to town.
Had coffee.
Listened.
Paid, left, drove
to San Francisco.
In Vesuvio’s,
more coffee.
Looked over
and eyes met
with a blonde’s.
When he left
she had a man.
The Tenderloin,
then. Research,
Juan liked to say
if asked, which happened.
The night came on
and he sat in a hotel
writing on a legal pad.

Back in Lagunitas
he saw Cathleen’s name
on the machine,
called her, she said,
Come tomorrow.
What’s tomorrow?
He didn’t know.
She wanted to feed him
to end her weekend,
was the way she put it.

Adore hauled his ashes.
That’s how they talked
down here. She fixed
a pallet on the floor.
One of them must sleep.
He talked in fusillades:
Watch the moon split
that cloud apart!
The old sun sinks so slow
it wakes up new!

(29 May 2011)

copyright 2011 by Floyce Alexander