Perfect Sun With Sinatra Poem by Bernard Henrie

I am the color of the Vegas Trocadero
before the dynamite implosion,
beige shoes, plaid jacket and smiling
into the cocktail shakers black face,
and now the permanent closure of rooms
where we sometimes met and loved,
argued and gambled with our marriage
always to leave together, sullen perhaps
even angry, but together in our secret
joys and clouded purpose, the solemn
and ambiguous heart, the long sea
of imperfect happiness.

Now, in room 301 of the cheerful sanitarium
where you doze in perfect sun with Sinatra
on the phonograph. You do not remember
my name or the children, or your affair,
or that you do not remember. Your mind
empty and frail as a bird wing, unapologetic,
silent, aged, steadfast, breathtaking
and sovereign. Your extraordinary single self,
thinned hair tinted with the Trocadero
moments before the explosion and fall.