The Reds
The moment in your drunk when you become
rich! A connoisseur. A seer. You are the fur-
possessed glamazon your mother warned you
about. A woman in red shoes. Only two kinds
of women, she tells you at the shore of eleven,
wear red shoes. You have just now finished
being a boy and it will be years before you click
a colored heel. Before you pull the plastic out
to buy a round for everyone. Before you drift
away from brunch in the East Village toward
being a boy and it will be years before you click
a colored heel. Before you pull the plastic out
to buy a round for everyone. Before you drift
away from brunch in the East Village toward
the movies by yourself and sleep the day-lost sleep
of tall Bloody Marys, waking up just once before
the credits to a love scene in which two women
tilt toward the camera, out of focus, no score
under them but their red breath and a headache
of tall Bloody Marys, waking up just once before
the credits to a love scene in which two women
tilt toward the camera, out of focus, no score
under them but their red breath and a headache
