Your equidistant ego commands this space inside
Our little Algonquin circle

      While here I sit
      A soft white brie
      Little-plated
      Right
               below
                        your nose.

      Does Mae West vie for your attention?
      Does Johnnie Walker know you're pulling the wool over our eyes?

Acrid smoke hangs while sly-sipping Scotch men spill half
On your dachshund. Your court sits (and stands when you enter)
And in the far back corner,
Out of circle-site, many a fair-haired young men wait in vain.

You're elevated by piercing wit, or the next fool who dares to speak
Oh - I could never notice the little details
So I whisper, How about your
Parked husband, slumped morphine-dazed
Blacked out by twelve noon?