A fan, a violin, a ticket
on a swaying train,
waiting like some self-satisfied
grande dame enshrouded
by her veil of steam. Wheels
sing on cobblestone streets, but
in the sprawling park, duets walk
and listen appreciatively
to a handsome mockingbird.
Summer sulks, and whispers in
equatorial tones, painted in red
dust and canopied windows,
behind which translucent ladies fan
themselves and pretend not
to sweat. The men, dangling
cigarettes in a darkened library,
admit nothing to their wives—mere
trophies or, at best, beloved pets—
whose delicate natures, their men
believe, could not tolerate the harsh
daylight glare of their midnight
mistresses. Falsehoods, fraught
with thorns and slickly oiled, flare
like matches, only to burn out
and leave behind only untrustworthy
images in their wake.
(c) 2017, by Hannah Six
Vintage photo: Afternoon Tea, Bombay 1897
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