In my waking dream
the car waited on the gravel
in the dying sun;
the engine purred unhurriedly.
I was not ready -
dress, yes, shoes - but legs bare
as time.
It was not seemly.
Breathless I clawed at the drawer
-
black, they must be black,
sheer, elegant, suitable;
time was running out.
Navy, smoke-grey, burgundy,
swirled in wild disorder,
tumbled over frantic hands;
ripped and torn, mismatched;
forgotten partners all screwed up.
Wait - please, wait for me;
not yet - I cannot go like this.
Black dress, black shoes - black
tights were nowhere to be seen.
When I found some, old,
thick-ribbed as the fear of
failure,
inappropriate
for the mysterious meeting,
all at once there came
a wild tick! tock! under my heart.
The thick black tights clung
cold as burial, and I knew
why the decorous car waited
in the polished dusk.
(July, 1993)
