A Very Nice Suit And Woman's Jacket Poem by Bernard Henrie

The young woman arrived first,
then the young man. They did not kiss
or shake hands, their sleek features
unbroken by any recognition I could see.
His dark navy blue tie pulled aside
and carelessly knotted.

A quarter inch of white shirt visible
at the wrist and tight at the chest
the way a towel clings to a swimmer
emerging from a pool; the unwrinkled
suit unphazed by the cramped cab ride.

It was obvious both were known
and liked by the waiters.

I sent them a drink, she lifted a white
chrysanthemum hand and smiled directly
into my eyes.

You expected them to dance well,
to know about fine art and car racing.

I lowered my head, Paris and Anais
appeared; she was an illustrator
for a magazine; her fat blue fountain
pen marking across butcher paper
or even a table cloth when driven
by an idea. We danced at a cellar club
named The Yellow Dog that Sings.

Sundays we rented bicycles;
she hitched a ride hooking my belt,
skirt billowed and rapid fire English
lavished on the summer air.

In the flower district we drank hand
squeezed orange juice poured over
a fist of ice.

I slept late and worked afternoons
selling American bonds.

We lived in a Faubourg Saint Germain
flat. She favored black sweaters,
gray skirts that matched the color
of her leather crafted high heels.

We shopped together for my linen
summer suit at Dior; he made each
patron wear a tie and we purchased
two pictures from his art gallery;

in the evening we said good night
to each other and to our pictures.

I went with Anais for her fitting
at the Coco Chanel store, a maroon
jacket almost Japanese.

The war had not yet begun,
Chanel not yet a traitor to France.

It was the last year
being Jewish hardly mattered.