A French damsel and I decided to take a train
To New York to see the Gates and be at play.
You were late to the Dinky and had to book
It to meet me by the stop to pause, smoke, and spring
Off the platform—covered in Bohemian clothes, your petite frame
We set off to see the artistic, monumental wrapping.
I gave you a present without wrapping
It as I tried to fix my eyes to train
Comprehension to your reaction, your visage in my vision’s frame
You whisper that we should go to the theater to see a play
But I retort to wait until a temperate evening in spring
You finger the present, the Micawber token, a used, yellowed book.
You pout your lips and look cute, so I agree to book
The tickets for the theater as men stand rapping
On street corners, with voices and legs that spring
Into such wild vibrations of motion that I lose my train
Of thought, and I joke about needing play,
And I blame the sterile academia; it is with guilt, I frame
You. To look, surrounded by this orange fabric, at your svelte frame
Makes me feel as though in a fantastical book
And I believe that even if I mellifluously play
Any instrument, sing any chord, and on dulcet objects start gently rapping,
I could never emulate your theatrically lovely strain,
Such a breed of actresses deep in watery depths in a refreshing, thespian flowing spring.
And in the Ritz that afternoon you are like an elastic spring
In your resilience to hide your emotions like a stoic picture in frame
As you sip tea and nibble cucumber sandwiches, you train
Your technique to obscure, to hide, to be anything but an open book.
I sit with merlot and start tapping, on the window rapping
At the flowing saffron Gates, ambiguous in shape like hidden facial play.
You act and act deceitfully in the Concierge Level, so I will decide to call the play
For the evening with scone in mouth when your surreptitious hiding springs
Forth when I stop sophistication and start hardcore rapping.
I exchange merlot for rhymes to show my disoriented frame
Of mind. I act the part of spoken poetry and put away the book
I am enamored with your French acting, gently rocking like a train.
And the night before all this, instead wrapping play collections old and yellowed for you
I decided against when soon the train (spring will come!) can take us to the theater
As we wear masks and frame book shelves in this fiction that covers all in orange.