Miss Catherine’s Grand Parlour
A feeble old woman lives down the hall, we chat on occasion
I indulge her constant kvetching of youthful occupants' invasion
since this erstwhile hotel's trendy loft conversion.
Crook'd finger and conspiratory whisper, lure me to door ajar
She tells of the latest spat between two male lovers living next door
bitter pursed lips mouth, gays, a lifestyle she abhors.
Clad in wool coat in August, faded scarf over brittle grey hair
gnarly fingers clutch worn collar,scent of mothballs hangs in the air
up-turned nose revering fragrant yesteryears.
Deaf, my gaze is drawn within the open loft where a grand piano
sits awash in vast rays of sun spilling in from unshielded windows
age-yellowed keys playing notes she no longer knows.
Miss Catherine are you divorcee or spinster…or a mournful widow?
Did melodies waft from your grand parlour filling the streets below
while in lovers' arms, you danced in moonlit shadows?
Torches passed, a girl down the hall fancies me an old maid with cats
eye to peephole, ear to door listening to youth go quickly past
curious if in my day, rakishly, I danced.