There Used To Be Gentlemen
by Maria DiLorenzo
who handled their women
like art in a museum, forbidden
to touch, yet sometimes slyly
touched, my grandfather in 1945
kissing my grandmother’s hand
at the drive–in then parting ways
on her stoop. The moon hung
like a chandelier, those sticky
fingers of light groped every inch
of ground, empty ballrooms they’ve yet
to dance in. Longing was like craving
a cigarette and not lighting one,
letting her hand go like a balloon.
She listened to the patter
of his shoes, the radio set low,
tuned to the song stuck in his head,
say, it’s only a paper moon,
sailing over a cardboard sea.
In two separate houses, two separate
rooms their hearts jazzed along
until drowsy dead air
bloomed, and the song forgot
how to sound, making them fall
asleep without each other.