Hot as the Indian Ocean,
the white sky burned
to seltzer and tonic water.
My airport portmanteau,
your unexplained absence
at the short airfield of Corfu.
A balcony of Greek descent.
The abbreviated clothes
and tanned skin like tobacco leaf.
Cold consommé on the balustrade,
cream bananas in a flowered dish;
a negligee blowing on the line.
Summer slow as the fourth inning
of a Dodger game.
The pulse of a rundown slug,
three second memory of a goldfish.
A tuxedo in the little casino,
a call to the states
and your voice trailing off.
A book and late cigarette.
The uneven surface of the light
asleep in the moon’s white bell.
Bernard Henrie
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-short-airfield-at-corfu/
