The Barefoot Contessa

The Barefoot Contessa

Ashen grey
all the memories in a can.

Involvement
under the liquid blue evening.

Midnight tries
I called my mom and dad.

They had heard no news
everyone seemed to be in the dark.

Moving around these city streets
new tennis shoes bounced me.

Springing on to somewhere else
now and then.

Thinking about my friend
who I should have killed.

Thinking about my
artistic failures.

Wondering about my
pretentious involvement.

Speaking to some
well known people.

Thinking about some who
have fallen in stature.

After the fall
there golden silk
and her sweet red lips.

Bluest evening falls
over lighted Atlanta.

On her lips
I tasted the wine.

Afterwards
I made love to her
under the oaks
facing the lake.

Blue numbers of recall
her hair was golden.

She sipped a beer with me
in the warm November evening.

The stars were glistening
the weather was crispy and right.

Barefoot Contessa in the shadows
she remained out of sight.

Spindles of her legs
so long and brown.

Thinking as I type this moment
out of the past.

Feeling the heat
we lay between the sheets
as morning cut through so blue.

As I walked with her
barefoot in the dew.

After a nap
sitting with her on my lap
smoking a cigarette or two.

Later
when she read my poem
she cried her prayers to all the world.

I watched
as into the parking lot
my amulet she hurled.

Water drip in the sink
seems to echo over Ansley Square.

There on the edge
shattering the silence
in this vacant room.

So much subterfuge
to make love to her.
Under the oaks
facing the lake.

-Will Dockery (11-26-81)