|
The Perfect Lady? |
 |
|
She walked up to me
smelling sweet
while I, stank
of tomato and meat,
and sweat under the scorching sun!
"May I have some tomatoes
and a kilo of meat," she said to me
in a manner depicting a lady of substance.
Her skin was like butter scotch
and her hair
hung on her shoulders
carelessly, nonchalantly...
Her steps, as I had noticed
sang of grace
and her voice
portrayed an aura of confidence.
She was perfect,
or so I thought.
"Did you hear me, or are you deaf!"
She lashed out,
violently lashing me back to awareness, reality.
Awareness of her presence,
of her beauty, her grace, her fragrance, her smile
and of course her manners.
"I won't sell," I replied simply.
I provoked more insults as she walked away.
I couldn't care less,
though I regret that still.
Or so I think?
Well her manners, or the seeming lack of it
I'm not quite sure which it is,
but it eludes me.
One minute I'm seeing perfection,
the next...
I could go on and on,
I could write a whole book,
but some things are better left unsaid.
Like my dictator father once told me:
"Son," he said to me. "Never trust a lady and her ways-
she's as cunny and calculative as a lion,
as witty as a fox,
so full of spots like the leopard
and what's worse,
she's as beautiful and sweet
like cherry."
Now that's something.
Coming from a dictator that is.
Or what do you think?
|
|
 |
|
