Trianon Night | Michael Igoe

Taut guy wires

in a breezeway

dares to venture.

They're burnished

until they gleam.

In the blackout alleys,

a new style of haircut.

Nape of the neck,

way to the crown.

Shared conversation

will deaden a game,

overcomes fatigue

as the bird in hand.

The barber’s fist curls,

the mirror behind him,

talks on guard in tenor,

as it’s an easy way out.

A reckless player,

the buckshot lover.

By night at Hotel Trianon

madam farmers in droves

adrift on a ballroom floor.

Michael Igoe, city boy, neurodiverse, Chicago now Boston. Tai Chi enthusiast, erstwhile scholar. Numerous works in journals and anthologies online and print. National Library of Poetry Editor's Choice Award for Excellence, 1997. Instructor at Boston University's Center for Psych Rehab.