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Encounter With Priscilla
--Priscilla Johnson, a painting by Alice Neel
She asked to bum a cigarette.
For the nerves, she said,
smooth as a sheet of sandpaper.
I had no cigarettes (I don't smoke),
But offered her in return
the waiting room copy of Popular Science.
Petty consolation. Her stringy, emaciated
fingers paused in the air, pondering, then
returned to attending her yellow teeth.
Been here before? she asked, eyes
playing with the second hand of the clock.
No, I said, I'm with a friend.
She gave a nod which seemed to say
You're lucky. She smoothed an imaginary
wrinkle out of her short, emerald dress.
I've been here once before, she said.
It wasn't so bad. I was only seventeen
and it seemed the easy way out.
Was my ear was intruding or not?
My lips teetered on the edge of response
when a woman, crisp and scrubbed,
interrupted. Priscilla, she said, we're ready.
The ground gave her a gentle shove upwards,
her feet started a slow march for her.
Whatever you do, Priscilla said as she
glided by in profile, don't let her name it,
and slipped forever
through the swinging double doors. |