Reminiscence | Jack Vince

Reminiscence
(a true confession)

It wasn’t mine alone,
I swear, it wasn’t! Expectant eyes
Were put to task; compelled to follow
Every action at theatre.

Like a cat, she stepped in;
Daintily, a Sistine Chapel of attraction,
With her stiletto-heels apprising
Spectators of her presence
When all was quiet.

Our sprain-prone necks
Panned in her direction for a glimpse
Of her form framed in aesthetics.
Yes! I played in the band,
But I was last to join
The wagon.

Milady, to you I swear. Even Bavarians
Could attest to that command
Of attention.

Silence.

Absolute.

As it was when Der Fuhrer
Mounted a dais; addressing
The Third Reich.

So, between two platforms
We sat not knowing which stage
To cast our glance.

And like an artifact,
Tulips amidst thorns,
She sat in her gold-studded gallery,
A solitary star at twilight; there
We bore witness as eight-legged pieces of furniture hosted heaven’s missing muse.

Like a redbreast, a robin, she perched
Alone at a corner, exuding the aura
Of an actress on a rostrum.
Then she looked our way
And managed a beam as
Compensation for our craving stares,
Mine the most glaring.

Call me a cheat, sweetheart,
But she reminded me
Of no one but you.

© Jack Vince, September, 2010.

Featured image by Stelios Kazazis, Unsplash

SAI Sabouke
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Sai Sabouke is a writer living in New Bussa, Nigeria. He’s a dervish who sees Sufism, history and language as formidable tools for society regeneration. His writing has appeared in Praxis Magazine Online and Agbowo. Sabouke loves beans, coffee and dreams of roasting the entrails of vultures.