(a true confession)

It wasn’t mine alone,
I swear, it wasn’t! Expectant eyes
Were put to task; compelled to follow
Every action at theatre.

Like a cat, she stepped in;
Daintily, a Sistine Chapel of attraction,
With her stiletto-heels apprising
Spectators of her presence
When all was quiet.

Our sprain-prone necks
Panned in her direction for a glimpse
Of her form framed in aesthetics.
Yes! I played in the band,
But I was last to join
The wagon.

Milady, to you I swear. Even Bavarians
Could attest to that command
Of attention.



As it was when Der Fuhrer
Mounted a dais; addressing
The Third Reich.

So, between two platforms
We sat not knowing which stage
To cast our glance.

And like an artifact,
Tulips amidst thorns,
She sat in her gold-studded gallery,
A solitary star at twilight; there
We bore witness as eight-legged pieces of furniture hosted heaven’s missing muse.

Like a redbreast, a robin, she perched
Alone at a corner, exuding the aura
Of an actress on a rostrum.
Then she looked our way
And managed a beam as
Compensation for our craving stares,
Mine the most glaring.

Call me a cheat, sweetheart,
But she reminded me
Of no one but you.

© Jack Vince, September, 2010.

Featured image by Stelios Kazazis, Unsplash

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