tête-à-tête

The art form slowly dying

She says I sleep like the dead.

I bind my body in the sheets

A sarcophagus of satin,

while my dreaming mind retreats



I go to this place, ( you know)

it's small

and serves souffle

I mispronounce the Merlot,

wondering later if she'll stay



It's not because I forgot her name

and not because of looks

and it's not because I only smile

while we palaver books



There is something in me, waiting

I know not what it is

I contemplate the measure of it

and sip a warm Chablis

(Oops, did it again...)



The elusive fundamentals

of tête-à-tête and repartee

All inclusive wine and cheese--

a wholesale, whore soiree



The din--we sit and talk and talk

and talk and talk, then stammer--

we nervously sip drinks and smile--

the merchant-fare of glamour



Truth be told, I'd rather sleep

and dream of you—and wake up often, crying

and though the realist inside me winks

I don't think he'd hate this fool for trying