Ludlow

An inch from the curse and pearled

by the evening heat       I shake

my polo neck and a cool draught

buffs my chest. What rises is

my animal aroma             the scent

of blue-ribbon stock      the sort

a starred chef would ladle from

a zinc-bottomed pan    to soften

and savor the hock he has sawn

and roasted for the diners out front

who sip at shots of pastis and gnaw

around the pits of kalamata olives.

                                                          My head

sits in his fridge: stooping for herb

butter, our eyes meet and he touches

my cotton-cold face      just as once

I stroked your cheek in a dream

you suffered in a room above the river.