The woman in white got up from her chair,
A thing you could still do back then.
Blond hair. White shirt.
New meaning to the words bare feet.Sparks flying in the big hall where she stood.
An exchange of cards.
She the one who started it,
Though he was quick with his response.I walked around the room.
The chairs were in my way.
Movement awkward,
With so many eyes upon my face.On the porch I spoke with a stranger.
Where she lived. What she did.
Ashrams spoke from within
Her long gray hair.Over her shoulder I could see
The woman in white step from the hall.
She had an escort now, a woman with a weathered look
Who knew the value of the other’s goods.A café that required stairs.
A table alone while others were in company.
The chamomile tea was good to me.
I kept the bag inside the cup.“Two scoops, not one,” was my advice
To the woman in white,
Staring with her troubled face
Into the ice cream place.A wife and mother in a Republican state.
A financier husband at whom she was irate
For the lack of equity in their deal.
I mostly listened to the details of her face.Some years ago a house down the road
On seven acres of gifted property.
Treated wood and the car I bought
Only to find it was not my own.The woman in white had an astronomical bent.
Outside she put her eye on Mars. It was real and
It was there. Even as a speck it had a weight
To press upon her own.And then the escort reappeared.
We came to a crossing on the path,
Where the two went on their way.
In a presuming dark, I saw what could become of white,
A mocking planet now entered in my space.August 2003