The short, round cherry wood table
wears a silky, musty, antique relic.
A vintage, crimson flapper dress rests
neatly across the polished surface,
As if waiting in patient anticipation
For its final provocative performance.
This table lives in a desolate room
Existing in an abandoned tenement,
Tucked away in a small, destitute town,
Alienated after the second world war.
Few of its original inhabitants remain
Living in a town folded away from life.
The garb’s been untouched for fifty years.
Its human displayer was kidnapped,
Collected and disposed of in darkness,
Because she refused to present herself
to a brutal pimp; a notorious hustler
demanding she render her bodily services.
A loner she became and remained as a teen.
Her mysterious departure was never probed,
She was just another echo lost in the desert,
Along with other spirits and personas that
Drifted away leaving this town, this building,
This room, this table and dress in isolation.
–by Maria Mocha © 2006