I broke through
this Tiffany lamp.
The triangles of glass
did not confine me.
Stagnating greens
desperate yellows
swampy blues
orange desires.
My gaze is not ironic.
My lips not ready to speak.
My cheeks red with anger.
She usurps my place.
What is there to smile about?
Her head confident,
her teeth shine through
her parted lips;
her sunglasses
hide her intent.
Counterpoint of youth and not-so-young.
And what exactly is to be desired?
And what raison d’ĂȘtre
occupies her
now?