The Ritz

In the foyer, guests compose.

The music, lazy

amazement; the white

marble like new flight, a failure

of seduction. At the seams,

a gentleman

ridicules his life

like a souvenir wife,

makes a to-do of snatching you,

the bill, off the salver.

He sings, thank you;

thank you, error.

One starts to appreciate terroir.

One cools in the shadow inflation.

One starts out as meat,

then boils to a reduction,

the old back-from-the-brink-

of-a-roofie. Refill, pretty please.

(Wheel of Ritz; wheel of cheese.)

A material couple is looking

at tulle by the devolving

doors—shiny and false,

like a pulse—

and when the phrase

I’m passionate about

is trotted out like a mirror,

I adjust the last of my hair,

my dubious neck folded

into my collar: a dirty wad of dollars.