The Best Kind of People

I once stripped nights away
with silks wrapped
in all the correct places;
Never advertising, simply suggesting.
Manicured to a sharpness
that cut passersby, my entrance whispered.
Because it's unladylike
to lift up anything
to a pedestal of true depth,
and one must never be exposed.

Smiling, an antithesis of Chopin,
who at the moment had resounded
to pound some life
back into medicated airs, I settled.
Thinking he played emotionally
because he was unable to love that way,
others return the signal.
"We are the right kind of people."

And my mind ran away...

Where apple trees had stairways
to the sun shining on May days,
and his letters were written
on poor man's linen,
always beginning the same way.
"How do you FEEL today?"
Poems tucked between sheets of
"I love you Macushla."
noted my moments.

Chopin crecendoed hollared out creeks,
full of catfish, and frogs to gig,
as well as other morsels
children are brave enough to eat,
just so they can say,
"I tried that once."

Clefts of society dripped humidity. Yet
not like that sweat in midnight summers spent
on the edge of cornfields high, so damn high,
from grasses bedding us, and inhaled.
We learned the hard way,
the easiest way what bodies could do
when intoxicated, and loved.

A hand pushed my shoulder.
Because people were watching,
and appearances mean everything in this world.
I gazed across the room... my life, pondering
if Chopin played these people
the way he played me ?
Do they too go astray
from the piano at hand
being "the right kind of people" ?

And rush ...

across the landscapes of
when we were Yeats' "Stolen Child" ?
When Shakespeare laughed
at all the wrong jokes,
and Voltaire joined us
in what we now percieve as mistakes;
those attempts to be

the best kind of people ?