Finely pressed shirts of baby soft linen
were strewn upon her bed, like the myriad of familiar
luxury ridden snapshots-
popped corks, and golden fizz that transcend her to a different time,
where scintillating orbs of polished swanky rock
were as common as Marilyn’s No.5,and bitter bruised hearts
caused by daddy’s leather bound pocket book.
Then that Celsius meter starts to drop,
and her reverie is stopped by the knock,
from the fair Monsieur Jacques.

“Finally,” she said,” you’re right on the dot,”
as she arches up her smooth delicate shoulders
that provide a lovely contrast with her terry cloth robe,
and he observes the gathering frost on her windowsill.
She’s been expecting him but she almost forgot,
Big band tunes and freely poured booze make up
what’s left of air inside Carissa’s cluttered flat
filled with snow angel cigarette ash, designer pumps and printed cash,
but her newly found debonair, paid attention to none of that
as her rose colored brassiere brushes his skin,
like the kisses of an Eskimo, and the lights go dim.