Ode at the Tomb of the Unknown Lover
                
The white muslin shadows of the
curtains reveal no secret.
Behind the French-windows, the garden vegetates:
A perfect parking place for her Rolls-Royce.
Peace. Warm afternoon. Fresh peaches.
Tell me what you see, move your eyes,
"Red lips on the white carpet" - and
a shade of orange at the corners.
I saw her make-up as she was looking
at the painting, cold and distant - she wasn't even there -
Still naked, a few minutes later.
She lives in that painting, I know now.

She put her clothes on and left the room.
And every Rolls-Royce has its own parking place.

Empty bedroom. Two empty cups of tea. Cold sheets.
Helpless cushions on the floor. Cold sheets.

Two cats are playing chess in the middle of the room,
They are moving the pieces with a magnetic blink of eye.

She left the room to get some ice-cream from Antonio Fresco
and promised to return.

Who drinks the best chocolate in town?
What is the distance between Argentina and NY?
Who is the third cat that can play chess?
How many gardens has she visited?

I'm playing this question-game to pass the time,
Laid on the white carpet and waiting for her.
Mockingly, she used to call me "High-Fidelity".