Unveilings
It was not I that unveiled her beauty.
The model waiting to enter a camera lens
fusses over a shoulder strap and steps out.
Did I see a veil fall?
The crying girl beneath was erased in an instant
as she felt eyes upon her, it vanished
where she pouted and posed.
Maybe I was mistaken, maybe I’m and old romantic,
seeking something not there,
but I do see her alone with her dressing table mirror,
listening to the glass image, telling it not to cry so.
Exasperated she rises and walks to a window.
There is a man in the distance, he is away
from the crowded street.
He is waving to her.
I imagine I am Peter Pan bringing home the lost girls.
Though she sees only a small boy
and wonders why the child is all alone in the park
crying.
Then she remembers her own secret image
and understands.
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