It was the gesso ground
And the thinness of the translucent wash
That lit the glow
Under the edges of light blue folded fur.
The light that tastes like peppermint
Slid across what could be called
The light rose skin of the stucco nymph in the corner.
So we talked
An idiot chatting to cats Christmas platitudes,
The rips in the pool's tables cloth
Mildewed in the side room of an abandoned bar,
Whiskey soaked bathroom slippers.
Voices oozed from faces, the faces disappeared,
So only voices sipped the cognac
From the globular glasses with the top truncated.
Each voice lost the other voice,
So each voice adjusted to its solo
But not to its loneliness being watched
From the corner by an ornate, stucco nymph.