A Sonnet for Charlotte as I Drink Alone
Charlotte was her pseudonym – a name she
Gave to sad men with wives or AIDS, eighty
Year-old virgins and perverts plagued with shame.
She sat beside me in the dark, netted
In black mesh, peach-scented and cheetah-blonde,
With her East coast eyes and ex-lover’s smile.
In another world she was an artist –
A painter of diced landscapes, shutterbug
With a curiosity for dead birds.
Her lips grazed my ear and dismantled me:
Blind pheromones poisoned my leery brain
And I collapsed into delusive love.
I can smell her now – armpits, hot skin, hair
All haunt me hard. She could be anywhere