The Reds

The moment in your drunk when you become
             rich! A connoisseur. A seer. You are the fur-
possessed glamazon your mother warned you
             about. A woman in red shoes. Only two kinds
of women, she tells you at the shore of eleven,

wear red shoes. You have just now finished
             being a boy and it will be years before you click
a colored heel. Before you pull the plastic out
             to buy a round for everyone. Before you drift
away from brunch in the East Village toward

the movies by yourself and sleep the day-lost sleep
             of tall Bloody Marys, waking up just once before
the credits to a love scene in which two women
             tilt toward the camera, out of focus, no score
under them but their red breath and a headache
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