I have been instilled to find certain 
paramours unkind as all piano bars 
can be. Synthetics always seem the style 
with finely bound waists, like books 
piled on tables in the lobby of society 
lectures. You are forever a committee member. 

Matelot, matelot, where you go my thoughts go with you

The token & the turnstile. First access 
then swoon of a dream that abides 
in seaside closets of mildew & blue 
soaps, through attic heat in search 
of vases, crates of canvas & water 
colors. I am simply an arranger of flowers. 

We burn of gin & horseradish, end- 
full nights at the Anchor & Crown 
where virtue is a beguine of cocktails 
& laughter, but what of the after 
painted town? Tomorrow, again, hatted & 
measured. The world is weary of our leisure. 

Matelot, matelot, when you go down to the sea 

Gets, takes off, is, puts on, fills. 
Boils, is set, then served, pours out. 
Takes, is spoiled, dosses down, 

forgets. I will wear the new finery if weather permits.