3.26.19

she was pale
fragile in her walk
confident in her stance
cigarette, in mouth
ash, on precipice
her words flew like a spit take
at a receptionist not so receptive
in my head
I imagined a Hepburn perturbed
Pleading for a room, and a neat scotch
And, between a copy of the Times,
the time to sip, to sit, to stare
to trace the glass marks
on the script of a movie that would never be made
pearls sat wistfully around her neck
waiting for an empty oyster to whisk them (her) away
back to sand
back to birth
I watched,
As all my minutes feigned an hour
Soon the managers flocked
A common commotion
In an uncommon motion
Ready!
to serve, to receive,
perhaps, to star?
hair shoved under hat
escapes in frosty chocolate curls
like ribbons on a cake
managers scramble!
receptionists blush!
movies end,
stars do not.