HE AND CLARA BOW.

[dadio]

He has a painting of Clara Bow
On the wall above the fireplace
That catches the light from the

Window just right. Who’s that?
The visiting woman asks standing
In front of the painting her eyes

Taking in the image painted there.
Clara Bow, he replies. Who’s she
When she’s at home? The woman

Says running a finger down Clara’s
Waist, sensing the matter beneath
The finger’s skin. Actress, he says

Wanting her to move on to pick up
Her coat and leave. The evening love
Making had been quite good, the soft

Jazz on the hifi, the bottle of white
Wine, the kisses on cheeks and lips
And most places else. Never heard

Of her, the woman says, taking in
Clara’s gaze, her sexy ways. Before
Our time, he says, moving her away,

Knowing Clara follows with her eyes.
They hug and kiss by the front door,
Exchange fond wishes and love words

And farewell waves. He returns to the
Room where Clara waits, her eyes touching
His as he sits stares. There is no better

Love than his for Clara or hers for him,
Which no other knows or ever shares.