Porta Bella

I see you always, a glass of red wine dangled in your hand before you,
reclining luxuriously in an overstuffed chair, all golden lamé fabric,
stunning in the confidence of your so young back then laugh,
two long curls of brown-gold hair framing your face, barely touching your cheeks.
You lounge shimmering confidence in a cream laced blouse and brown Diane Keaton slacks,
a long right leg crossed over your left knee, the shining leather of your pointed boots.
And you will smile forever under all that vast array of glowing Tiffany lamps,
my memory never fading while our time then sets away under a coming moon.