Praying Russian would settle mental egg dumplings

with currants and clove cigarettes.

Nostalgic for red dawns and tight-lipped observances. Though how

with their whirling turquoise and carmine rosettes en tole on eggshells.

What was, was. What is now? Please?

You used to proffer Hatcher and Kyber Passes. Now I wonder at the names of red you bring.

You tantalize with lace fringe and cane sugar coffee drinks laced with persimmon syrup.

You dangle Precious in front of my good eye and expect no confusion.

No distancing. No doubt, but trust. No double winged wishmaster could intercede with

a soothing balm to mend the disjointed conversation of our meetings.

It always come down to the same question, doesn’t it?

Why…..you?

Copyright July 31, 2009

by N. Constantine