An Old Song

July 15, 2010
Poetry rings in my ears. Walking down the street I see women in skirts and full hats; I see men moving purposefully, their coattails lifting in the breeze. Poetry rings in my ears. I see a woman holding a man’s arm, short brunette curls framing her round face and lilies pinned to her breast. Her skirts swish as her shoes click on the cobblestone street. She speaks animatedly to the man whose arm her round fingers rest on, the man who listens and longs. Poetry rings in my ears. His wire glasses slip down his nose and the thin, bony fingers of his right hand rise to reset them. He smells the light lilies at her breast, feels her heavy fingers on the rough wool of his jacket, supports their sudden pressure as her heel catches the edge of a cobble. They reach her destination. Goodbye, she says, and Thank you. His mouth bends to her cheek, kisses it, a swan. Till tomorrow, he says. Till tomorrow. She advances to the door, knocking and pulling it open. Her fingers flitter goodbye. Hazel eyes catch sight of white marbled floors, a shapely oak banister, more lilies in a vase. Heavy, the door swings shut.
Poetry rings in my ears. An old song.

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