Book Lovers Ball

The wind is high and the sidewalks
shine in clear ice. Nine valets wear
green balaclavas. The man who grew the
oyster beds has seven shucking knives.
It's a long walk for a martini -- probably
a good thing. Do I have a library
card? I have three. A Tiffany watch
walks around on the pink glove of a model.
The brocade tux appears to be in. We all
eat beef, even the vegetarians, and
there are skewers of pickerel and the
skewers are made from real branches.
There's a literary catwalk and a child
scans ahead as she walks with a woman
wearing seven pounds of black crepe.
Followed by a nine piece band and I keep
my eye on the sax and trumpet. When the
sax and trumpet are raised we dance.
I wear down the heels of my shoes.
To a private club, that's where the taxis
go, where half of us whine and
the other half mix pints with the
vodka, the beginning of a bad sign.
But we haul ourselves out of there
and our tuxes receive a free round at
the Inter Steer. Also pickled eggs
in Italian wine glasses. Who suggested
LPs and egg sandwiches? Who was that
who sprayed medicinal cannabis on
my gums like I'm a doped race horse?
Who knew librarians had such midnight
dealings? On some illicit website
there are photos of all this.