Lilleth dances, a smoldering fag
dangling between her fingers,
the indentured musicians
managing the beat, an exotic refrain
lulling the patrons, who doze
postprandially.
Her mind is, I think, confused too:
her little sister has set the tone,
the fruit of her womb
ploughing the furrow,
eating bread, their brows sweating,
so that Lilleth no longer trusts herself.
The patrons thus sense a deficit,
unidentifiable,
and order sweetmeats with their coffee,
thick, dark, and aromatic,
they pack on the pounds, lifelessly
watching her dance.
Image After The Dance by George Hamilton Barrable.
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