So slopes confetti, kissing the floor
Sighing in time with the “assistant”
Who also slopes at the door
Stasis in the midst of a fluster
Of husbands in at quarter-to- four
While girls trill in, shrill with glee
At clutter and tack marked “amour”
Stitched by shadows in south sea shacks
The same place was dank that day
While he scuffed open boxes of riot
For the inevitable sales display
He paused, then popped upstairs
Parked her wheelchair in its bay
Cleaned her plates, brushed her hair,
Leaned forward to hear her say
“Time t’open up Love, be on your way.”
By
Ali A. Naqvi
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