Silhouette

This is not a brothel, he says

 

Over wine as cigars turn to ash,

As neon signs dim down to red,

 

And faded girls count all their cash.

 

This is something more exquisite.

 

The radio hums an old song

Different from how you remember it:

 

The notes fall flat, the tune’s all wrong.

 

But hey, look now, we can pretend

 

That the neck they kiss isn’t yours;

It belongs to a poet, in the end,

 

You tell yourself behind closed doors.

 

Everything’s what you think it seems.

 

Beneath red velour and sheets bled through,

You close your eyes to live the dream

 

And feel it take the light from you.

Author's Note

4 stanzas of Goethe verse.