the perfect attire...

their lives have
now become the imitation
of their wardrobes
lives of meticulous perfection
lives of appropriate attire
not too low
not too high
not too
lives of soundless severity
coifed and polished
and neatly crisply put away
for another day
to be shown displayed
at the right time
the right place
with the right people
the passion of their
life now relegated
to the accessories
on the table of marriage
a touch of red here and there
in just the right spot
artificially lit
dimmed at the switch
coloring flaws invisible
a crystalline heart empty
except for special occasions
holding a bouquet of
life plucked from the earth
life within bounds
the decanter of life’s experiences
only partially drunk
not too much
not too little
just right
he has his place
she, hers
and never the twain to meet
but for the neat linen fabric
of the dinner table
he feigns not his disdain
of her of their life together
his chair turned and open
ready for quick retreat
for his withdrawal
from her
from them
and she
she has her place
and lives it well
pulled tightly against
the hard surfaces of her life
of their marriage
the hard surfaces of him
her neck strained
strained from the
strained reality of
their marriage
of her strained existence
the downward slant of
facial expressions painting
the family portrait
with vague memories
of youth’s precious jewels
held in place by the smallest
most discreet remnants of
sparkle in the imitation locks
and her porcelain hands laid in
perfect unison perfectly
grasping the holy sacrament
in covert defiance of dionysus
and so they sit in silence
indifferent apathetic silence
in their indifferent marriage
their indifferent lives  
dressed in their
perfect attire
of black

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