Street Party

The colour of her Kohl uncertain, She flips the pages of the magazines. No hints, no clues, no advice. Disgused as the voice of reason: Common sense. She paints her eyes to burnt orange To match her dark complexion, She wears a flowery gown still in fashion She arrives at the party Surveying the naked eyes staring At the starry night. She wrecks her brains About an ill-advice Of staring at the stars with Naked eyes. Her mind is blank. Why is no one wearing Kohl anymore? All the females are in strippy gowns. The invitation said flowery gowns. Is this a postmodern take To flowery fashion? She takes off her glasses And wipes them clean The stripes are still hurting her vision Where is she? Why are all the familiar faces In stripes and not flowers? The loud music plays Familiar tunes Bob Marley, the Doors She floats to the music Ripples of her hem. Though this enigma; Still unresolved; Is niggling her. She strikes up a conversation With a handsome Blond youth. He admires her Kohl Burnt orange and all. Pays a complement about Her rose tinted complexion She blushes even more. Though the conundrum Is still there Unresolved. She puts on her brave face And asks "The flowers are hidden Behind the stripes." He answers casually No touch of irony. How she demands to know? "Simple," he answers, "Dresses are multi layered" She feels like a fool. She reproaches to the question Of lack Kohl. "No one cares to hide Their eyes no more." The youth Says "I like a woman in Kohl." Yasemin Balandi