Eva, Lester, Isabella. And Alexandra! So many things you can do
with that name: Alex, Alexa,
Cold comfort if you ask me
just wanting to fit in hoping no one notices,
but really I like those very round paving stones don’t you? Oh, yes,
the way light plays about them after a rain at the end of the day.
Planning shots for tomorrow at Joan Of Arc Island . . .
Yes, you are beautiful I tell her. And you as well she says. Poking me
in the ribs were two rigid fingers --
"Maiden’s hand to dead men's fingers we call them
in these parts."
All of the unschooled nymphet she’s been made-up to be, off-
set she clambers the particular rocks hurled by giants in bye-gone eras
to devour the classics
-- Virgil in the Latin, one can not help but notice;
Pindar in the Greek. Aeschylus.
But to see her discoursing with friends, all dimples
and conspiratorial tones -- having
scarcely put the two together before: Confessing as much
to her she straightened my jacket-collar and said, "What
manner of man is this
who carries his balls in parenthesis?" Making fun of
my small stature as “a mental midget” no doubt, my
saying such silly things. What? I said.
For that wise remark, she said, you owe me
one fondue at Café Lalo . . . O, Ladybug! she cried.
On your shoulder -- Make a wish! Heliotrope.
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