He sucks in a trough of tobacco and exhales, chest heaving,
lifting his eyes to the sombre skyline of Manhattan,

ignoring the luminous green bottles knocked over on the bed
                                                            of red silk linen sheets;
almost an exquisite display of a war that had just occurred
                                                                           between

two tribes of red Indians, armed with tall wine glasses
                                                          instead of spears.
He remembers gold: the ring she was wearing, and pink:
                                                      the colour of her blush.

The wedding bells ring no more except in his memory
of her. She will not remember the promenade home.