Collection

cashmere swirls over worn faille\r\nand madras and taffeta float\r\nchests spill over with second-hand satin\r\nand hats top the bedposts\r\nall this - her raiment for a life\r\nshe isn\'t living - finery\r\nfor places she doesn\'t visit\r\nall of it - draping a room\r\nshe didn\'t plan to inhabit\r\n\r\nsaturdays, near sundown\r\nthe Quarter ignites, and the bars\r\nsmoulder on Bourbon...\r\nArtiste works in what she sleeps -\r\na sheet, with a bit more\r\nto make it seem less -\r\nbut on early Sunday morning\r\non spring and sunny mornings\r\nshe wears a heavy green robe\r\nand pulls the sash tightly\r\n- a massive knot on this day of rest\r\n\r\nhostage of habit\r\nshe wears it all day\r\nsips cafe au lait\r\nuntil her tongue is chicory dark\r\nand can\'t taste anymore\r\nshe leans on the broad frame\r\nof a hole - two centuries now a window -\r\nshe rests, folds arms...\r\nlazy ears receive\r\nthe prayers and murmurs of Mammas\r\nwafting in with the heat\r\n\r\nracoon-eyed\r\nshe sees her Drunk\r\nwalking up-street against the masses\r\nwhom she throws a daily five to\r\nthen, she draws back elbows and eyes\r\nArtiste covers closely\r\nher full breast with green\r\nand under the white-hot sky\r\nin a pillow of humid curls\r\nshe dozes\r\nin a future that\'s easy\r\n\r\n(hope the hole - two centuries now a window - is still there)\r\n