Portrait Number Five: Against A New York Summer in  General   

I'd walk her home after work
buying roses and talking of Bechsteins.
She was full of soul.
Her small room was gorged with heat
and there were no windows.
She'd take off everything
but her pants
and take the pins from her hair
throwing them on the floor
with a great noise.
Like Crete.
We wouldn't make love.
She'd get on the bed
with those nipples
and we'd lie
sweating
and talking of my best friend.
They were in love.
When I got quiet
she'd put on usually Debussy
and
leaning down to the small ribs
bite me.
Hard.

By Jack Gilbert

Tell Your Friends About It | Print This Poem

Comments

You should be logged in to be able to leave comments

Other poems by Jack Gilbert:

• Divorce
• In Dispraise Of Poetry
• In Umbria
• Poetry Is A Kind Of Lying
• Portrait Number Five: Against A New York Summer
• Rain
• Recovering Amid The Farms
• Searching For Pittsburgh
• Tear It Down
• The Abnormal Is Not Courage
• The Great Fires