Man as Novel

He is your unfinished novel.
chapter one -
a casino in Biarritz,
your mother's sapphire locket,
a beacon below your smile;
fingers cooly fanning out
a hand of baccarat
as he swears he would give up
his daughter's soul
for you.

Chapter four-
sipping Kir Royale
at a garden party in Mayfair,
a spare husband or two
wondering how you would look
dressed only in his wife's pearls
or a strand of diamonds.

The eighth chapter,
a train in Morocco;
the wheels keeping time
with your stories.
You're Mata Hari
when a stranger invites you
to the dining car
to share a dry martini.

And the last twelve pages -
the streets of Curacao;
he steals oranges
from a merchant's boat
and calls you Katarina,
steel pan breaking down
the tourists smiles
and leaving the world

incomplete.