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.