The Future

The Future

She’s sitting across from me
in an expensive red gown
that pushes her powdered
thick breasts up to her chin,
with a cigarette between her
index and middle finger,
wedged into the red silk
of her classic long gloves.

Like Old Faithful shooting
through the center of a cherry
smoke explodes from between
her pursed velvety lips—
my impervious frown broken
by my gag reflex’s response
to her smog, her storm cloud.
But I don’t care. She could
lunge at me with a sword.
I’d do anything for her.

She smiles flirtatiously.
“You can have all of this,”
she says and I believe her.
Her gloves come off and
halos wrap around the
stumps of every last finger;
her wrists glow even more—

“I want you so bad,”
I moan, I sigh,
as my hand slowly
slides towards her.

She pulls away,
puts on her gloves
and her glasses,
finds her briefcase.

“You can’t have me yet lover.”
She taps her wrist where
a watch should be.
“Patience my darling.”

Then she’s on the train again,
the booth empty across from me,
but it still smells like Chanel No. 5,
and for a brief moment
the cushion holds her form.

And on the wet napkin,
beneath her drink,
is the time and place
in a blurry black stain

where we’ll meet again.