me:
high suede heels
tight jeans
black tee and
wind tousled
flower scarf from Paris
stepping over
city puddles and
floating mist
sifting the night lights of successes
i push the button for the penthouse
and am welcomed by a smooth black Parisian man
who carries with him the swag of sex on a chaise lounge
and the power of a publishing company that supports
the 37 floors that lay beneath him.
his wife:
a Japanese ex-stripper,
now a powerful lawyer,
worshipped by all the other geishas.
she takes my coat
and his gifts jingle jangle
provocatively from her wrists and fingers.
on the table:
melon wrapped prosciutto
avocado and basil tossed shrimp
french fromages
red grapes, vine tomatoes, fresh cut breads.
wine.
windows from floor to ceiling
giving the impression that it may be
possible to fly
may the devil truly wear Prada and live in Toronto?
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