Actors with
their variety of voices
and nuns,
those arch campaign-managers,
were pacing
the campo in contrasting colors
as Jane and
I muttered a red fandango.
A cloud
flung Jane's skirt in my face
and the
neighborhood boys saw such sights
as mortal
eyes are usually denied. Arabian day!
she clicked
her rhinestone heels! vistas of lace!
Our
shouting knocked over a couple of palm trees
and the
gaping sky seemed to reel at our mistakes,
such
flashing purple insteps and careers
which bit
with lavish envy the northern soldiers.
Then loud
startling deliberation! Violet peered,
hung with
silver trinkets, from an adobe slit,
escorted by
a famished movie star, beau idéal!
crooning
that dejected ballad, "Anne the Strip."
"Give
me back my mink!" our Violet cried
"and
cut out the heroics! I'm from Boston
Jane and I
plotz! what a mysteriosabelle!
the
fandango died on our lips, a wintry fan
And all
that evening eating peanut paste and onions
we
chattered, sad, of films and the film industry
and how
ballet is dying. And our feet ached. Violet
burst into
tears first, she is always in the nick of time.
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