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Poem for an Actress
By Kirby Wright
You're still on location in London?
Tonight, I will dine with your headshot.
I prop you up against a wine glass
Then anchor your bottom with a spoon.
As usual, you sit at the head of the table.
You appear to be in a rare mood--
Blonde hair drowning your shoulders,
Lips full and parted. Eyebrows plucked
To form the hooks of question marks.
Candlelight tickles your visage.
I serve our favorite-- duck a l'orange, wild rice,
Steamed artichokes. Perhaps you recall
Having me in the half moon of August
While bulbs of night-blooming cereus
Popped for the hungry tongues of
Moths. I have dreamt of us walking
A road in a town of cobblestones.
The only ones we knew were ourselves.
There were bogs, thatched roofs,
The scent of lamb and cabbage
Cooking in an oven. I notice you signed
Your headshot "Love." The word is the
Child of a pen ruled by indifference. I will
Measure us with a yardstick after creme de
Menthe. I am sure we are shorter than the truth.
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Document last modified on: 02/10/2004