for Greta Garbo
What dank interiors to your fortress;
I encounter you swirling olives in
the overstuffed green pleather corner booth,
soft inferno of hair haloing your neck,
script open on the table
well-mannered jazz laid to rest in the carpets;
you’re thinking of John, wearing that familiar
timeless oversized blouse, the “I dare you” visage
permanently affixed to your face.
I seek permission to sit, transfixed
and petrified to hear your most famous line
But then there’s your voice
deeper than humanly possible,
like a caricature of a woman with something to hide.
I sit. you’re doused in muscular, spicy perfume
your lips surely haven’t seen 26 years
I want to tell you it’s okay to love women
and “I’m sorry about your sister”
but instead we kick back four highballs from
the helium tank waitress and talk about
how you can never really go home.