PULSE

it was my pulse,
and it was on exhibit for a friend to see
when we were mixing pleasure with a chilled glass of wine,
as the beau monde was attracted to an art exhibit at
the new location of the Barnes Foundation in Philadelphia.
i avoided the retrospective, preferring to hang with the less
distinguished and the less important, who was not interested
in being "among those present" mentioned in a morning review.
so i never saw the diamonds and pearls not yet in pawn, but i knew who
was certain to wear them, all the bottle tanned women with their bare spines
and tight smiles who never disappoint.  nor the fresh champagne and tiny
sandwiches which might have been sniffed and nibbled,
but so unlike the fate of buttered popcorn at the Friday movies in younger hands.
i skipped the late night closing for my own intimate opening.
and the day after the opening, i was back working in my shop, filling my time
with thoughts of a friend who was mixing pleasure
with a chilled glass of wine:  she was nude, i was nude, and the stars were nude.
the wine was never able to extinguish the fire in my belly, and
all day we had the place
entirely to ourselves.