Still Life, City. Progression.
In the
auditorium the Time Warp blares. Sisters
In braids prowl the lobby twisting synthetic scarves
Into snake-ropes for jumping—they form a near
Miss of a dance that their father forgets to notice.
He is unshaven and intently pondering a message
I will never read. Outside, the city pretends
To be more worldly than it is—an insecure façade.
Earlier this morning a herd of teenagers gathered
Around cafe tables trying hard to be something akin
To cosmopolitan—betrayed by their wide eyed
Gawking at the bejeweled gentleman who sauntered
Into the ladies room. How this day moves into itself
A crowded choreography, a stuttered line
Or misunderstood cue. There are windows
And through tinted glass the sisters
Have begun to navigate
The difficult
Concrete.
They have moved further away
From their father who has startled himself
Into an embarrassed awareness checking all directions,
A frantic parental compass, for his girls.
Reddening, I think, because he traveled
Blocks of a spaced-out distance long enough
For his daughters to move in curious tandem,
Scarves circling their necks like landmarks
Through a city at once young and nearly lost.
|
|