Poem: “Languor in Rush Hour”

Languor is picking her wedgy in a lusty daze, glancing slowly down at us through the longest lashes we’ve ever seen. We’ve all forgotten to pretend to read our newspapers, and there is so much that we don’t know. She has all the time in the world in the wrinkles of her swishing skirt, which drags august across the floor, and is badly stained with juice— pear, from the smell of it.    To alight on the day spewing scent of pear and last night’s curried goat—how like heaven it must be, to be Languor! But now, with that last lashy look, Languor’s leaving, so all that we can do is hope again to find her on this early- morning train, where we will be, with certainty, and this time, well-prepared for the encounter: a handkerchief, in case she’s irked by too mellifluous a pear; and safety pins, should lolling skirts turn perilous, or tiresome.