Poetic Divination
“At the Algonquin” by Howard Moss
He sat at the Algonquin, smoking a cigar.
A coffin of a clock bonged out the time.
She was ten minutes late. But in that time,
He puffed the blue eternity of his cigar.
Did she love him still? His youth was gone.
Humiliation’s toad, with its blank stares
Squatted on his conscience. When they went upstairs,
Some version of them both would soon be gone.
Before that, though, drinks, dinner, and a play–
The whole demanding, dull expense account
You paid these days for things of no account.
Whatever love may be, it’s not child’s play.
Slowly she walked toward him. God, we are
Unnatural animals! The scent of roses
Filled the room above the carpet’s roses,
And, getting up, he said, “Ah, there you are!”