Black Lace and Burgundy

Catlike, her fingers stalk the keys;
Für Elise from memory.

Con espressione, indeed
her masterful cadenza.
Momentarily, she pauses.

Time to make my move, enquire
maybe she’d like some wine.

A melodious Irish lilt precedes
her mellifluous Moonlight Sonata.

I pour our drinks. Place hers
on the Steinway baby-grand.
Burgundy and black lace,
a heady combination.

“Well, thank you,” she says.
“Nice hotel, this. Such
appreciative clientele.”

I bid her, “Do sit down.”
Pat the cushion beside me.

And so she does, smoothes
her dress, lights a cigarette.
It smoulders in the ashtray
crimson traced.

She touches my hand – bids
me undress her.

Politely I oblige,
slip them off, inch on inch,
those delicious cocktail gloves
made from black Breton lace.