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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

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