AT THE CHELSEA HOTEL

At dinner
at a time
before selfies
eating escargot
and Seattle salmon
with a household goddess
once named Cliff
an ex Jesuit
now in a tweed mu mu
who complained
about changing roles
in the soaps,
who feared junkies,
Roger Vadim,
and loved Candy Darling
read Kaddish in Danish,
had a snapping turtle
and once raised
a tortoise
for a two mile race
asked me to read
my latest Village Beat verse.