Thursday, October 15, 2009

Oh my desire to go to Edith Wharton's estate.

A familiar face stumbles
onto her. Intoxicated. She supports,
Drunken complaints.
“Ms. Wharton, will you sign my copy?”
Her name plastered in the air,
no smudged glass to look through.
Lights, not language. He is a trophy,
liquor and foam dribble down her
collar. Half conscious he sings.
A mailbox overgrown with elite parties. Paper
blessed by her pen’s touch. She knows.
Champagne in one hand, New York in the other.
Three steps on the front porch. She turns
his key. Perhaps he will write a whiskey
lullaby, prize-winning.

Statements in her locket, the billboard is painted white.

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