- Non-Erotic Poetry
- Come Upstairs
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It was one of those evenings.
Not yet nine,
Though it felt much later.
Cabs and chauffeur-driven limousines
Drawing up before the bronze-tinted
Plate-glass doors.
Liveried flunkies scurrying.
Guests with luggage
Checking in from near and far.
Sharply suited
But looking tired,
He entered The Lobby Bar.
'Good evening, sir.'
(The barman's greeting familiar yet respectful.)
'Tanqueray and tonic?'
Next to him she sipped champagne.
Armani suit. Louboutin shoes.
Red lips. And nails to match.
'A busy day?'
'Too many meetings.'
She smiled. 'And after that?'
'Still more meetings.'
Smiling, nodding, mirroring his posture,
She took another sip from her champagne flute.
'Perhaps you need to unwind,' she said.
'I have a room. Upstairs.
It overlooks the park.'
She said that he should call her Jane.
'Not your real name, I presume.'
'It could be,' she said. 'For tonight.'
'And today?' she asked, over morning toast and orange juice.
'Oh, you know. Meetings. More meetings.
And still more bloody meetings.'
