expatriate mornings cry

Corporate Design
those expatriate mornings cried so thickly; so dressed
like every minute was a dry martini party where we practiced
flicking ashes on the Persian rugs
before making the debut in the basement lounge of being
classically misunderstood
sharply unheard by what is deliberately left unsaid
 
those expatriate mornings cried so thickly; so dressed
like every minute was a wet costume party where we rode
eunuchs for unicorns and Hermes for Hermia
before staining the antiquated satin of our favourite boudoir
with botched black ink, slapping back no apologies
by her haughty and torn lace garter
she passes through the door, commenting lightly
that maybe somewhere on someday, some child was raped,
isn’t that funny?
 
the dew is cold on this cold-water flat
the Baroness says, thrusting out her broken wooden leg
so I cry thickly and always dressed
for my old birthday party
where punch stained my white dress
and the day was filled with melted ice-cream and pink-frosted cake

© lyw