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A red velvet curtain
That never quite closes all the way
Shadows slip through the gap
Like rumors that don’t know when to leave
That’s how they do it
A coat check ticket with no number
Folded twice, left behind
Like proof of a promise
You never meant to keep
You don’t ask for it
You order tea, and they know
The leaves are steeped twice
In a teapot made of Ottoman gold
A map of the Baltic Sea
With all the harbors crossed out in ink
Resting on an upright piano
Where the chords remember forgotten names
They said it was legal in Riga
But only on Thursdays
Though no one ever spoke of it
And later, in a low voice
Someone alluded to it
An old habit, a custom they never name
Gloves left behind
One silk, one leather
A language only certain hands transcribe
I suppose that’s how they do it
And somewhere beyond the curtain
It lingers still
That quiet, unspoken vice
That belongs to the north