The silver foxes come strutting out

Of their townhouses late at night

And inform me

We’ll be making one stop

Before we go to Rothmann’s, or Bice

Or the Gansevoort Hotel for drinks

At the stop, the slender, young and lovely

Wait under the awnings or behind the glass

And seeing the car pull up

Smile way too widely

As they climb in

While the doormen cling

To the doorknob

And throw me winks and looks

And the Foxes whisper in the car

And the vixens laugh all too readily

But all is up and up, for

The eyes of the limo man

See all ways at all times

And one in this position

Must be nothing but discreet

I sit there for hours, munching on a hero

Reading Jonathon Franzen

Sipping my ginger ale

Calculating the immeasurable wealth

That is about to befall me at night’s end

And when they finally emerge

I watch the Foxes lurch to kiss

The vixens, and the vixens blush

And grin at me, knowing that I know

And later on, wracked by guilt

Or whatever wracks the minds of

Men in pursuit of the fleeting

Heat of yesteryear, they engage me

In conversation

Oh, it is some mindless thing: sports, the news,

How I got this job and do I like it

And in the awkward silence

That follows they inevitably reach into

Their pockets and tip me overlarge.

On the weekends, I toast

The proliferation of Silver Foxes

10/19/2004

Posted on 10/19/2004
Copyright © 2023 Ken Harnisch