They say she wears a mask that could launch a thousand ships
And that with the purse of her lips, the white-gloved hands
she uses to light thin, pretty cigarettes and drink Manhattans
that she would launch them.
Unwittingly, perhaps, but she would do it.
Because for her it has never been about the Centurion
the Bentley or the Silent Circle. About velvet ropes or
red-bottomed heels or Escalades or even about the Sixteenth.
No. Pleasant as they may be, such luxuries are but ripples in the wake of a
ship she knows will
sail on towards that inevitable
The Brute to a Caesar they seem to say
was a Knight, his armor Loro Piana, his sword a lit Cohiba.
With the stroke of his Montblanc and the dial of his Vertu
It is said that he played chess with peoples’
lives, moving pawns and taking Queens behind an Iron Curtain.
And he did. And whenever asked if he would do it again
whatever it was that he had done
he always seemed to quip that
ce qui est fait, est fait.
Regret hinders, and he had not time for it.
Better to swing the bow and sail
until he felt like a sailor no longer.
And that’s the trick. The hustle. The magic. And. The pity in sailing as he does.
Et donc, when the flood-gates began to give,
she got on a Boeing at dusk and
left him under the guillotine he
had brought upon himself.
Memento Mori, she purred.
A Sine Qua Non
The man who knew it all
Never quite managed