The tiny lady, atop her short little legs, is full of conceit. And
as she rushes about, she pitches her crap all over me and my room
as if she sprinkles on me optimism for my epic exit from gloom.
She would have me understand her Spanish, but
our languages are so different that I confess,
to have her noise no longer penetrate my ears,
to silence each and every confounded hint of it, I —
But she is a puzzle: She lashes out at the frosted glass
as if only she may rise above this warm, windowless box,
and make grievances brought on herself annoy everyone else.
Try as I have to show her that the glass could not care less,
still she fights against its yellow light; Angry at the globe,
or glad its plain exterior is easily recognized and targeted.
Laughable really — Each charge of hers produces only a dull, tic!
A tiny noise that cannot be pleasurable, except perhaps for her
to mask the helpless feeling arising from being stuck here with me.
Her confused and strident war appears to make her bitter,
but nonetheless ripe with passion, which I appreciate in a woman,
for if nothing else, it guarantees that though she pauses,
as surely as the Earth makes its leagues ’round the magnetic sun,
this little lady, too, will vigorously tour the globe again.
How it brings out the model.
And like the devil, she poses beautifully in her hell
little black dots on red wing covers to tantalize, like
a fiend in the flashy, thin, and noisy pages of Vogue.
Passion retakes her and again she clings to the indifferent light.
Why? It’s madness. “Woman, hear me,” I say, above her droning,
“Passion is one thing, but let it not be your undoing.”
She doesn’t listen. Behind her Oms, she plays deaf.
Only these drones narrow and sharpen my senses and suggest
loudly that this winter retreat she finds a bare, ugly prison;
But she must soothe her own distress, for though ugly,
in it a resourceful lady may yet survive. And in Spring,
overwhelmed she’ll be, by fragrant flowers and promising fruit.
Such counsel she professed noisily no need of, and so
to her mystical sounds I tuned out till later
when she showed up in sweepings, on the floor.
She had fallen, this tiny beauty; But not only the beautiful fall so noticeably,
and certainly not only the young; our passions form blunt instruments, and
even I, without claiming to be cured of such madness, have nearly fallen too;
Now I shall try to learn from this lady to be content and moderate my passions.