for Artie Gold (1/15/1947 – 2/14/2007)
bereft this very day of wasted body,
maybe you walked into the restaurant
just as we raised glasses of Sardinian wine
to belly dancers in Valentine’s Day fedoras,
Maybe you followed their musk, eyed tattooed midriffs
peeking from velvet halters, entranced by bangled
arms following beat of cymbals and drum,
kohl-dark eyes enticing you,
bereft of body to feed and tongue to taste,
desire habit revived
by glint of bells around luscious hips.
“Who am I to not want
the warmth of the flame,”
you’d ask in a poem.
a harem undulates for you,
waving scarves to speed you
on your long way.
Claudia Lapp 2/2010