Tuesday, July 4, 2017

A fan, a violin... (Day 167)

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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