A Lady in Red
The road leading to the main lane is a sight black and shiny
with white stripes on each side, it was resurfaced not for us
locals, but for a golf course in a grove of a thousand olive
trees sacrificed as a sport for infantile men in clown slacks
The day was mild and dark clouds hung around like rugby
players fretting, the other team was late, ready to insult
passers-by and I thought of the petulant title of a book:
” God is not great”, a boy defying everyone, but whistles
in the dark. My road ended at the lane going to Benafim
where a woman in a red dress stood with a unlit cigarette
in her left hand and I noticed her long fingernails were
Phosphor green, she asked for a lighter, said I don`t smoke
trying not to be pompous about it.
She called me a self-absorbed man this angered me much
I pushed her onto the main road where she was hit by
a sport-car, - also red- she and the car disappeared yonder.
From the principal lane, I could see my Sahara a breeze came
carried me like I should be a fall leaf down to the plain and
I was no longer alone, but then the rain came like a dense wall
a ruin appeared it had a wide covered entrance but no roof,
sought shelter. Blood of millions of ant I had trampled on in
my search for beauty was washed away and my feet was clean
and scented as cardinal`s shanks ready for the pope`s ritual.
In ionized shimmer, I saw her again, dressed in red and she is
called, lady poetry.