A Reflection Last Thursday

She sits in a cream-colored latte shop trimmed with green

(The kind I hate profoundly but makes a good cup of joe.)

Paperback in hand, her eyes

Glide across the page like a skater on ice.

Not digging deeper and not being touched.

It’s a best seller; has to be! The die is cast the mold is set

In this trendy house of idle skimming chatter

Her smart blue suit and black-rimmed spectacles cannot lie.

The evening is warm, just a notch above balmy. And there she sits

Looking at words she’ll never love

Her mind in a dozen fractured bits, colliding receding rolling about

It’s the ideal life, I suppose

A chariot built by the sons of Charlemagne

Robes by the daughters of Caesar

A good book, a cappuccino with all the trimmings,

A rose-hued sky taut above fat, marshmallow clouds that hang

Like strewn rocks suspended in a frozen moment

And there she sits, sipping occasionally

Athena caged! A tornado ensnared!

As far from distraught as content

Listlessness hovering over her face

Unable to hide

Oh Hera, was a silent tongue thy undoing,

Some filial acquiescence to an overbearing father’s vicarious demands,

The guilt imparted by a weary mother who’d had her fill of impulse and whim?

When, I wonder,

Did your muse put the lyre to rest?

An oblivious sip and shift in her chair,

An upward glance,

And Isis vanishes behind a broad smile

(All except a glimmer maybe only I can see)

Venus rises

To embrace a far cry from Lancelot

Broad shoulders and a fancy suit with a fresh haircut

A nose-job and a couple of love-handles shy of a nauseating commercial

And Mórrígan, my dear, sweet Mórrígan is gone

The veneer had jelled and hardened

And my mirror

(funny as it was)

fades away

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Author: therealkenjones

writer, artist, wannabe photographer, recovering Southern Californian...

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