Two, sometimes three times
a week,I lob corks in an arc
through cigar fume filled air,
past immaculate dining room
chairs, beyond the lure of perfumed
couture, towards where the basket
ball rim of the wastepaper bin shimmers.
Trajectory guides it among
glimmering winter stars, moonshine
or summer sunbeams fading light.
A further glass of wine steadies
the mind and by extension calms
the arm,improves the sight,
its dull thud as it hits the rug similar
to the plop of stoppers coming off bottles
of flat champagne. Next one,take aim,
bulls eye,rattles like a dying snake in the clutches
of a buzzard. Conversation stops,
glaring eye of hostess, man trap mouth
unmuzzled , bright brittle sarcastic voice.
"Is it close or are the Harlem Globe
Trotters strolling home tonight?"