HE AND CLARA BOW.
He has a painting of Clara Bow
On the wall above the fireplace
That catches the light from the
Window just right. Who’s that?
The visiting woman asks standing
In front of the painting her eyes
Taking in the image painted there.
Clara Bow, he replies. Who’s she
When she’s at home? The woman
Says running a finger down Clara’s
Waist, sensing the matter beneath
The finger’s skin. Actress, he says
Wanting her to move on to pick up
Her coat and leave. The evening love
Making had been quite good, the soft
Jazz on the hifi, the bottle of white
Wine, the kisses on cheeks and lips
And most places else. Never heard
Of her, the woman says, taking in
Clara’s gaze, her sexy ways. Before
Our time, he says, moving her away,
Knowing Clara follows with her eyes.
They hug and kiss by the front door,
Exchange fond wishes and love words
And farewell waves. He returns to the
Room where Clara waits, her eyes touching
His as he sits stares. There is no better
Love than his for Clara or hers for him,
Which no other knows or ever shares.
