Bernard Henrie

Bernard Henrie
Bernard Henrie administered social service programs for 20 years in Los Angeles before imposing his own exile to the Mojave Desert. He ventures out for art, movies and the best peach cobbler in California. (He will share the location with poetry lovers).

Did I Mention That My Wife Died?  She Was In Spain.

The moon pops-up
from behind a jazz club.

It's snowing, whitened tufts stick
on the slack wires, canvas awnings
of restaurants fill with snow.

It's New York time.

Drivers slow as though falling asleep.
A worthless cold front settles in.
Waiting for a traffic light at 82nd,
I know I've lost my certainty.

The Carlyle is so beautiful tonight.
A small orchestra in tuxedos,
women chipped from ice smile
just for asking. A girl I know
shows up, we drink quite a bit
and I can see the Bonwit Teller
brassiere she is famous for,
I touch her surreptitiously.

She recites names of Parfum,
she sounds French:


We kiss the way ugly people kiss.
Rowing a boat the wrong way.
In the dark vestibule she will not
take down her russet underpants.

She leaves for her second date.

The snow has stopped, I refuse
a taxi, the Nigerian driver so lonely
with just himself in the yellow moon.

Walking home, a Schnitzer
with a bobbed tail looks over.
Jeweled collar. Before I can move
she shits divinely on 5th Avenue.

Several smaller planets drift by.
My fortune writes itself out.
No oracle appears, and I'm caught
on a leash, drunk as a Rahv
and washed-up in polar air.