Afternoon in the Park with George

you register first
as the sound of gravel
yielding under the weight
of deliberate steps

the cadence of your pace
across the promenade
informs the beating of my heart,
my trembling hand

What does the writer care
of scandal
in the City of Lights?

a wisp of dust rises
from the toe of your boot
as you halt
at the hem of my skirt

the arch of a raised eyebrow
articulates your advantage,
me sitting on a park bench
you standing over me

backlit by the afternoon sun,
you radiate aristocracy
from the cut of your trousers
to the fine weave of a brocade vest,

its onyx buttons gleaming
like the eye of a crow
who’d gladly steal away the ruby pendant
nestled in the hollow of your throat

a pulse point causes the jewel
to quiver slightly
as baron/baroness takes
my gloved hand, upraised

lovers we are not
yet there is an intimacy
the onlooker may infer
as we stroll arm-in-arm

through the park
on a warm spring afternoon,
the sighing of leaves in the willows
co-mingling with our own

passion for words
passing between us…

We cannot tear a single page
from our life
but we can throw the whole book
into the fire.