As the moon caught the car on the turn,
A policeman disappeared into the corner.
I stood beside the bust of Homer that
Kept Manet's paintings company, watching
My friend return the books to the oak shelves.
Every time she picked one from the rug
That had been bought from Persia,
She opened it and read
And told me what it was about.
In the gloom she enjoyed her prizes
As Homer looked on with his blind eyes.
The ceiling above was tiled with a replica
Of Michelangelo's dusty creation.
She said, "Forster's A Room With a View."
"They're back." She heard me and returned the book
As I heard the horn and gate.
"How does he look?" "All right,"
Except for the red on his neck.
"He was quite a fighter," as Milton went to his dark niche,
His green jacket torn from him, "and so was his son."
Tires grinded against gravel and
Two pairs of black heels stepped out of the car.
My friend threw a last admiring glance at Rembrandt
Before facing the other old man on the floor kissed red
And the young man beside him, blanketed with bruised books.
"A kid with an angel's soul" she had called him before the smoke appeared
And the room shuddered.
Two pairs of black heels clicked on marble stairs
As we slipped out, smelling of mahogany and cigar.
The policeman came out of the corner again. The lights
Came on and we turned away before the screams began.
end