(New York)

new york at night,
her small ebony-colored italian greyhound, obsidian, snoozes on her bed,
he jumps down and runs to the door at the sound of her key in the lock,
running past the paraphanalia of her life:
a flat bowl of blackberries and black plums on a table,
vases and pots of black callas, black hollyhocks, black pansies,
a virtual jungle to little him.
she comes in carrying the gift from her sister blanchetta:
a black bento box containing all white foods.
carefully she tries the unfamiliar:
summer rolls in rice paper wrappers,
salads of jicama and rice noodles
and shortbread cookies.
its not really to her taste.
she goes to the refrigerator for some black beans,
oil-cured black olives mixed with cream cheese spread on sliced ciabatta,
black caviar on melba toasts
and tiny black currant jam tarts.
her cell phone rings.
she picks it up and hears the voice of her father. . .

All writing contained in this website 1998-2005 by Betty A. Parker