The Great Man at the 92nd Street Y
Following the reading at the Y,
I shook his hand, surprised he seemed so spry,
if liver-spotted; so I joked that I
liked whiskey, men and my Salvages dry;
and stood a bit too close, and brushed his thigh.
He leaned towards me, intoned a soft reply,
“Let us go then,” and I thought I’d die!
He proved as rich, yet modest, as his tie;
and loved to tease, to offer and deny,
to use his clever tongue to crucify
me, pinned and wriggling like a butterfly,
until I’d shake and cry. How I miss my sly
old Possum-puss; my secret love; my wry,
dry, ragged clause; my Sweeney-pie; my guy!
Last edited by Michael Cantor; 09-22-2022 at 11:50 AM.
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