Remembering How A Suit Should Fit A Young Man Poem by Bernard Henrie

The young woman was waiting for someone;
I could see the bartender was dizzy for her
and the wait-staff hovered. She ordered
a rillette of smoked salmon, holding each bite
for a moment before swallowing.

Finally, her companion arrived, insouciant,
breathless and alive; a dark tie youthfully
pulled aside and loosely knotted; the suit
unwrinkled by the cab ride.

I sent them a drink,
she lifted a white chrysanthemum hand
and smiled without artifice or effort.

I lowered my head, Paris came back
and for a few moments I was young.

On Sundays Anais and I rented bicycles.
Sometime she hitched a ride hooking
my belt and letting me pull her along.
In the flower district we drank a divine
orange juice squeezed fresh with an added
fist of ice.

I slept late and worked afternoons
selling American bonds.

We lived in a Faubourg Saint Germain flat.
She favored black sweaters and gray skirts,
her high-heeled shoes worked with craftsmanship;
if you kissed her feet, the shoes gave a vague hint
of the Morrocan leather she preferred, you thought
of the Mediterranean sea.

Anais came with me for a Dior jacket fitting;
he made each patron wear a tie and we also
purchased two pictures from his gallery;
evenings we said good night to each other
and to our pictures.

I went with Anais for a fitting with Coco Chanel.
The war had not yet begun and Chanel not yet
a traitor to France, it was the last year
being Jewish hardly mattered.