The withered rose in the mauve
Porcelain vase, petals strewn on the
Table for two,
She sits alone, ginger-head
Slightly tilted towards the back,
Adroitly holding the cigarette holder.
Thin wisps of smoke rise
And mingles with the red haze
From the Chinese lamps,
Hanging limpidly from the ceilings,
Illuminating as much was necessary.
She looks across the table with
Her dark eyes, beckoning those who
Wished to be enslaved willingly.
She preys on them, and tames them;
For there was no mortal who,
Looking into those eyes, escaped from
The coffee in the china cup
With green sea weeds, had
She stirred almost mechanically
As she lifted them to her lips
Coated with red lipstick.
The black silk of her evening dress
Rustled noiselessly, slipping
Delicately from her
The ladies on the other side
The gentlemen by the glass door
While she, unconcerned, stared
Into the vicinity.
The cigarette, burnt out,
Was disposed into the china
Cup of weeds.
Organ music floated;
A sixties’ tune, maybe…