A NIGHT WITH ROSIE
Slacks, jacket, and a rhinestone brooch
that rides the velvet like the diamond pin
of an order of nobility from the final days
of a lost Ruritania.
One likes to think of furtive trysts,
a quickie in the closet,
crackle of crinolines,
when only the chambermaid watches,
as if for those with battubs
it was a better time.
The metaphoric stones
the metaphoric pants
the metaphoric flesh.
What if I wore a beauty mark?
Feeding addiction,
a finger at a time.
Trying to find the structure.
The waste places
lost in treflection.
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