The glass door was spinning panes
like an open book.
A suit the color of sky close to night,
wire of eyeglasses a gold moon.
He bowed as if judicial
and called a French name.
Glasses were filled with ice
the color of amber.
We were in America.
He asked me to take his hands.
They are cold, he said.
I warmed his cold hands
as we sat on the rouge banquette.
It was the last May of the century.