The Road Beneath Our Feet

Who Only Stand And Wait

A clothing shop with mannequins; 
a man & woman stand in fancy dress.
They look like waiters in a posh hotel, 
or servants in an English manor house
where sheets & underwear are ironed. 
We see our own reflections there, dream
we’re nouveau riche with hired help.

How uniform their features are: his 
slick, black hair & arch demeanor, 
her Farah Fawcett bob & vacant eyes. 
Wait a minute—they are us when we 
were young! You look angry; I look 
bored (we’ve had a row) our silence 
ever-widening the space between us. 
But I won’t curtsy; you won’t bow.

—Whatever was our fight about? 
I don’t know; you can’t remember. 
We’re not getting any younger.
At half-past-prime-time-Saturday-night, 
in a city where flash-bulbs pop & music 
plays, what are we waiting for? Quick, 
don that snakeskin jacket; I’ll slip on 
the mini-skirt & short white boots. Let’s 
grab a cab uptown and go-go-go-go-go.

— Ellen Wise