Ludlow

An inch from the curse and pearled
by the evening heat  I shake
my polo neck and a cool draught
buffs my chest. What rises is
my animal aroma  the scent
of blue-ribbon stock the sort
a starred chef would ladle from
a zinc-bottomed pan  to soften 
and savor the hock he has sawn 
and roasted for the diners out front 
who sip at shots of pastis and gnaw 
around the pits of kalamata olives. 
  My head
sits in his fridge: stooping for herb
butter, our eyes meet and he touches
my cotton-cold face just as once
I stroked your cheek in a dream
you suffered in a room above the river.