The time is after dinner. Cigarettes
Glow on the lawn;
Glasses begin to tinkle; TV sets
Have been turned on.
The moon is brimming like a glass of beer
Above the town,
And love keeps her appointments — “Harry’s here!”
“I’ll be right down.”
But the pale stranger in the furnished room
Lies on his back
Looking at paper roses, how they bloom.
And ceilings crack.
By Louis Simpson
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