-at the famed “Clarke Cooke House”-

1.
my wife,–– well,
once my wife,–– spoke softly,

smiled slyly,

speaks softly, still,

still smiles slyly.

one might say

she’s up to something.

maybe she's up to something.

she could be up to something,
but who could say with certainty?

there are children,

one of whom is our son.

so we meet again,––
compressing the long years between us,

me, her, the son we made together
and his girlfriend, –– "bella ragazza"
the Italians would say,

in Newport over dinner

in deepest December

a wharf restaurant of note,
noted for its French cuisine,
authentically elegant, 
charmed by the sea,–– weatherly, I'd say.

outside, a clear northeastern cold,
crystalline atmospherics,

the stars overhead lingering,
displaying the pictures made of them,

(which I still can't map out

without a detailed ephemeris)
spinning tall-tales of romance, the mastheads

rising from the heavy laden decks, pinpricking the sky
above the icy wharves of sea-swept Newport.

inside, cloaked within the organic atmosphere of saucy France,
but in compliance to the wood-burning fires, the fundamental
discovery of man, I order something burned-up,
as burnt as the heart of the Crab, out there, up there,

but to my senses as beautiful as the colorized veil it makes.

2.
outside for the last time;

shake my hand my once young wife.

pat this icy face with that warm-handed mitten, woman.

                                          December, 2016