|
He straightens his power tie
shoots his cuffs
between the cool sixth floor and the lobby
nothing like a Splash of Nash
in the Club Lounge
to punctuate a tryst
with a spicy older woman
Then out
through the brass and glass
to Fifth and Grand
bleak glare of a downtown afternoon
beyond which nothing's what it seems
He moves down the sun-bleached pavement
like a well-dressed accident
whistles a cab
settles back in the warm bench seat
where Celine Dion's voice
and the rhythmic click of the meter
massage his temples
on his way Westside
Behind his mahogany desk at Watt Plaza
he remembers that vital detail:
his credit card, left on a cocktail napkin
at the Biltmore
copyright 2006
Mark
Dixon |
