We watch the cricket.
Clueless American, British man.
Tomay-to Tomah-to doesn’t even come close.
I blink at the screen, hesitate
but think, what the heck, ask
sorry, but, er, what is a wicket?
He smiles back, tells me gently,
explains the meaning of
leg in front, googly.
I remind myself that after all,
he has passed the Elvis Test,
cunningly designed to root out
Americanophobes, though right now
there’s a lot to hate us for. Still,
a man who’s Sound on Elvis
and a woman who strives to decipher cricket
may indicate a willingness
to speak and maybe even love
each other’s language.
THE MUSEUM OF SOPHISTICATION
Cole Porter tinkles in a corner.
Ava Gardner’s feather boa prickles, tickles.
A dummy of Coco Chanel is corseted in tweed
and pearls. Grace Kelly’s glamour’s sheathed in ice.
She drives men wild. They think
they’ll be the one to make her thaw.
Marlene Dietrich’s hat and cane
sheathed in seductive cruelty,
Marilyn Monroe’s lipstick
I wanna be loved by you
I touch your skin
read you with my fingertips
sense your close-grained texture
feel the warmth that seeps
between the cells.
The current shoots up my arms
makes me want
to live and live and live.