Say it's the year of their courtship，

    your mother and father，

    in the ballroom of the Shoreham Hotel，

    summer 1952.

    In this plush setting，

    the orchestra swells

    time and again to a tune

    always their favorite.

    Any Friday night you could find them

    on the dance floor.

    He in tux and cummerbund.

    She in a black strapless，

    hem brushing the waxed wood

    as though it were a lilypad.

    Surrounded on all sides by Jesuits

    and their débutante dates

    in crushed velvet，

    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 fumble 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.