Save that the curtains, drawn
and held by jagged darts
arrest the light with flecks of gold
the music, when it starts

pours through our hero’s penthouse suite
so unexpectedly
he starts to tap dance, while, downstairs,
creased, but fresh and coy,
our heroine sits up in bed
and glares into the dark,
still not prepared to talk to him,
but angered by his joke.

Our hero slows mid-step in thought,
dashes into the hall,
and, lifting an ashtray in his arms,
both bowl and pedestal,

swings it back into his room
where, cued at the end of the bar,
he pours its cache of fine white sand
across the polished floor,

then does a soft-shoe, carefully
sweeping his outstretched feet
through fine white sand, that brush and glide
freshening the beat

until, downstairs, she smiles; the notes,
diminishing, converge;
and she falls back on her pillow, launched
on sleep’s transparent barge.

Joe Osterhaus, “New York Minute”
Art Credit David Johnson

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    David Johnson
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    Oh. and this made me feel so…:)
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