Tuesday, March 17, 2015

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Off The Record

©Off The Record
Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

They hurried out of the opera house,
that famous Paris opera house;
it was pouring; there was no umbrella.
Suddenly, he stopped, stood in
the downpour staring at her
as his hand found and removed
a monogrammed, silver
cigarette case from the inner pocket
of his tux. His eyes never left hers
while he lit the damp stick
of tobacco. That was the moment,
that shot-to-the-moon instant,
she realized sadness floats
much the same as love had.
Her attempt to convince herself
everything would be all right
was as fleeting as a bad joke.
"Come on!" Her voice broke
on those two simple words
as she coaxed him away from
what she imagined he must be
visualizing: an end to their happiness.
She proffered him her public mask,
no rarity in her writer's sack
of baubles and words. He knew
if left in place too long,
it would not be removed
except in her work. He knew,
also, there was no such thing
as off the record
in any language. He remained silent.
In the wake of destruction,
it was like slipping on the skin
of pitch-black yesterdays.
She tried to forget. To breathe. To be.
The warmth once inside her was numb
on the promises of tomorrows.
They had strolled up the aisle;
now they exited, one stage left,
the other stage right—
not just for the night.