There is
the open book

her inquisitive look
the way

with one stockinged leg
hanging over

the arm
of the chair

the centre parted
wavy dark hair

and he sitting
across from her

at the writing desk
writing to his mother

saying how good
he was being

all alone in Paris
reading the books

she’d sent
paying his way

paying the rent
eating out

working in
getting

the studying done
leaving the girls alone

no late nights
no *****

no cigarettes
no sadness

or regrets
and looking up

from the letter paper
seeing her opposite

with his book
open on her lap

her black
laddered stockings

the way she sits
invitingly

him smiling
dotting the i’s

and crossing
the t’s

periods at the end
whispering

to the dame
be there soon

kisses on the bottom
of the letter

for mother
and the dame’s

(bottom)
maybe later

letting the ink dry
imaging what

beneath
the dame’s dress

and underclothes
may wait

and his
deep sigh.