That room must still exist, behind a white door,
a wood floored parlor with French doors that open
into a piano room.
In the corner, three bottles of opened Merlot, a plate with
sliced carrots and broccoli next to a saucer of hummus
and a pot of warm cider.
On your cheek, a flicker of candle light. Me on your lap,
my fingers tracing up and down your arm.
The hum of Debussy’s L’isle Joyeuse. The other guests
mere outlines like ghosts.
That 1870s house with the golden etched wallpaper and lazy
crystal chandlers. It hasn’t dissolved back into reality. Back
The rustle of programs floating onto laps and the clap of hands.
The young performer’s bow- he would be past thirty by now.
A black scarf looped loose around your neck, dark rushes of curly
hair down to your shoulders.
The smell of fire, white paned window heavy with fallen snow.