Decadence

is the houses we might have lived in,
the humming spines of ivied neighborhoods,
stacks of lit windows embossing live wood.
Born to that, how fluent we might have been,
entitled to Latin and English gin
and Chopin-enhanced sentimental moods.
I'd call down roof-rending winds and a flood
if I could, leave their Steinways in the open.

I wouldn't. In truth, I love how they preen
for each other and for the rest of us, thirsty
for beauty beyond expense and useless as elegy,
the gorgeous books in disorder, the bone tureen
of pumpkin soup, Rita at the cello and Lucien's
ivory shirt stained with exotic tamarind.

Nicole Pekarske
Smartish Pace
Issue 13

Copyright © 2006 by Smartish Pace, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.

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