Through the Gate

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.