With Robinson at the Fairground after hours
Robinson, your harrowing, gray-felt seclusion
the cat named Lonesome
and red socks left in the sink,
come, let's walk arm in arm
on trampled grass through the deserted stalls
and stale smells of the workers' fires,
to a field of tents
strung with a necklace of lanterns.
The jewel stuck in my throat, dear Robinson
I wish it was a pearl
swirled from Aphrodite's mantle
something to soothe,
it may only be this,
a worthless bauble, a cabochon of fear.
I say, “How hushed the gilded calliope
parked under the massive oak and yet
in the distance, I hear music.”
“Something about gold, it sings to blackness.”
The smoke from the cigarette wreathes his head.
Pigeons on the bridge fluff,
pick fleas, coo,
our steps in unison, these dust covered shoes.