V  P  R

Contemporary Poetry and Poetics




—Brooklyn, 1952
Through the banister and haze 
of words wreathed in cigar smoke,
I watch our solid cherry Parsons tables 
float as though balanced on wings 
of eagles.  Despite the heat, 

Mother in her sable stole weaves 
in and out of dancers, gripping ice 
in silver tongs, finding drinks to freshen. 
Father has all the answers tonight, 
has aces high, has licked his jinx for good.

There is so much noise the horns 
of cars fit right in, and such glitter 
the glimmer from streetlights 
through torn screens only adorns 
the party's edges.  This night-world 

shimmers with late summer laughter, 
its skin pure sound like the sigh 
that follows song, strange as parents 
who kiss when they pass.  Our guests 
move from light to shadow and back.

© by Floyd Skloot


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