Dinner at the Hotel De La Tigresse Verte

AS they sat sipping their glasses in the courtyard

Of the Hotel de la Tigresse Verte,

With their silk-swathed ankles softly kissing,

They were certain that they had forever

Imprisoned fickleness in the vodka—

They knew they had found the ultimate pulse of love.

Story upon story, the dark windows whispered down

To them from above, and over the roof’s edge

Danced a grey moon.

The woman pressed her chicken-skin fan against her breast

And through her ran trepidant mutinies of desire

With treacheries of emotion. Her voice vapoured:

“In which room shall it be to-night, darling?”

His eyes swept the broad façade, the windows,

Tier upon tier, and his lips were regnant:

“In every room, my beloved!”