Time is escaping like steam from a kettle
or a train passing town back in 1821.
Time is escaping, but I’m not.
We wait. No, that’s not precise
enough, let’s say: I wait. I wait.
I’m waiting for a new skirt the dressmaker
intends to have ready by Thursday.
It’s a purple and turquoise wraparound,
quite stunning. I’m waiting for an invitation,
a reason to buy new shoes in a matching style.
I’m not awaiting any invitation. No such
gathering of festive friends, modern
coiffures, or blowsy non-styled in-your-face
fallen slack-dyed do’s. Who are all these
people anyway? And why do they stare
at my shoes, with the left foot on its discapacity
platform, while my right foot taps the tune
I cannot dance? Perhaps they’re staring at my
stark white hair, while my turquoise and purple
wraparound skirt slowly unfolding falls.