Through the gate to the Avenue,
under a cold rain that ruins
Alexandria's silk shoes.
A policeman at the curb:
Be careful!
This place is dangerous!
You don't know the half of it,
I reply, thinking
of the dinner party,
where we shook hands with men who turned
away when we whispered our meaningless names;
of bejewelled women,
flitting around, arching for faces
it would be their death to miss.
Traffic is light.
We stand in mid-street for a taxi.
None stop.
A decade passes;
an old black man pulls up,
takes us out of the chill.
Back at the house guests still dance
in the beautiful old rooms.
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