There’s a screen between us, opaque; it filters our lives.
What you see is who I want to be and what I see is what
Now, you are the romantic; a tragic figure fights for his
rights, an amusement for the upper class.
I dance on the table, flushed with shame, for this I will
win the crown.
I am little Miss America lost on her stroll down the aisle.
I’m your little darling who forgot to look harmless.
(c) Rob Goldstein 2016-2017
Today the Earth was
shorn and shackled
As the Sun
Image and poem (c) Rob Goldstein 2017
She has strolled the
twenty yards among
the desperate Italians
who sleep on fine couches
beneath that crummy hotel
over Washington Square.
The wind as a Southern Storm
lifts her up to the land of
wildflowers and Irish seascapes.
Flemish belles wring
A clarion call!
An armistice! And
Felique is alone on a
subway that goes
As surely as the clock ticks,
Just as surely there is a way
to escape the Village—
But for Felique, whose anguish
has never been televised
And whose skirts are off the rack
There is no escape to money
This poem was first posted in March 2015 as a standalone piece but it’s part of the Felique Dupré in the Haunted World prose poems.
Poem and Image Rob Goldstein (c) 2015 All Rights Reserved