L.E. Fitzpatrick
Misdirection
She waits
confident in the
subtle misdirection of
black felt dots
speckled randomly across the
veiled blur of a stylish hat
Her tapered fingers, elegant
sheathed in white kid gloves,
smooth a spill of silk stockings,
straighten seams that accent
contours of firm flesh
She waits
for her Cary Grant
to return from the dining car,
faintly redolent of an
after-dinner brandy and a fine cigar,
sauntering with effortless grace
down the narrow corridor
to touch her lightly on the shoulder
The train churns past
laborers, silent as wraiths,
drifting through the orange groves
lighting smudge pots
against the sudden chill
One
lifts weary eyes
in the twilight haze and
imagines the passengers inside
In an earlier, less blighted age
when polished manners &
surfaces embellished with
ornamentation were enough
He imagines
her lovely
expectant
upturned face.
©2004 by L.E. Fitzpatrick
