Smooth piano in a Chinese living room;
someone put Chopin on to smiles
and plays an autumn evening of white silk dresses
with assumptions just back from the cricket wars.
So a rich Victorian hypocrisy only reveals my own
in a belly whore-house, living room,
whose taste is felt by my listening tongue
as lines fly ceiling sharp, quaffing Chopin.
The Chilli Wars, piano banging on the fritter front,
coffee dreams of softness under silk;
sugar shouts, a cream launched barrage,
the piano sings a flash of river wings.
And behind it all, hope warms the notes,
and sings harmony into the flavour screams,
and Paris dreams right back at me
of my journey there, tomorrow.