poem
TIFFANY IN THE SPRING

Tiffany's on a four-poster this morning,
Like a London slut atop "the Lady's" bedding.
She's cock-teasing with her naughty cooze,
Yet mindful of the crochet.

She might have been Serena, steaming from the shower,
She might have been Marilyn, insatiable,
Or Little Oral Annie, live in Montreal.

But it was Tiffany who spread herself
Wide across a lady's bed
And fingered in sorceress's circles
The veined and polished mahogany post.
So she was chosen at this morning's news stand:
One coffee, one Danish, and Tiffany in the Spring.

And now, from the chrome commuter train,
From behind this sparkling glass,
I see fresh housewives in wrap-around skirts
Teased by Southwestern breezes,
And young husbands in Martinized office wear
Kissing over custody of the station wagon for the day.

The Spring sunlight patterns surprisingly
Certain shadows on the platform;
The intricate lace silhouettes of trees,
Bicycle racks, the fence.

And swaying now, rhythmically through the patchwork fields,
Rocking rhythmically with the ride,
I love this morning's sunshine on the suburbs:
There's so much pattern here a London Lady would approve:
Yet, Tiffany's secretly spread across her four-poster,
Snug beneath my coat.