Urbane Martini

Light scatters through frail leaves in bay
windows. A band of smog-softened sun

edges along the chaise longue. A jewel
ignites when beams reach the bottle

and I raise my eyes to hear you say:
The past, that feeble attempt at the present.

Our former Weltstadt is on the ebb.
We must soon pack our books and move on.

But not yet.  We both need another.
With any luck we’ll be in bed before

this digests, fake moonlight from the neons
falling across our shoulders and chests.


For Don Ernsting

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