***
Two players. One mystery.
Over the table bed
of green baize,
under a multi-oil-lamp
chandelier
you were my opponent.
Not wearing a classic tuxedo,
but performing trick shots
of best pool players,
under suspended mirrors –
the eyes of the observers –
reflecting the dazzling fox-trot
of the porcelain balls
that you were sending directly
to the craters of the moon –
were you my opponent?
In a stunning, full-length black confidence,
you kept narrating the game,
to the right and left were clouds
of sweet incense,
shuffling,
a large collection of Fabergé eggs
stood still,
the furniture made of birch
judged us – in jeans,
the turquoise walls were set off
by life-sized caryatids,
the ghosts of pointe-shoes
polished the parquet
in front of the reclining marble cupids –
the grandeur of my feeling
got softened by the presence of the two players-
me and you,
over the table bed,
in a game of vital importance.
