Say it's the year of their courtship，
your mother and father，
in the ballroom1 of the Shoreham Hotel，
summer 1952.
In this plush setting，
the orchestra swells2
time and again to a tune3
always their favorite.
Any Friday night you could find them
on the dance floor.
He in tux and cummerbund.
She in a black strapless，
hem4 brushing the waxed wood
as though it were a lilypad.
Surrounded on all sides by Jesuits
and their dbutante dates
in crushed velvet5，
pearls around their necks
like a load of light.
How you love to imagine
that somehow everyone in that room
although a little tipsy
will get home safely
and fumble6 in love for their beds.
That the smoke from cigarettes
ringing the room in red
like hot coals is still rising.
Say somewhere birds lift off the lake
and it never gets light.
