The black lampshade, x-ed with silver stars,
tapers feminine above the marble stork leg.
The client, bored with waiting, turns the light
on and off, pursing her lips at the pattern
on the back wall. The white wicker chairs,
with their flimsy cushions, are not designed for delay,
and the still life of limes, whole or segmented
and heaped round the yellow bowl,
encourage her to note the passage of time.
The client turns the lamp off and sits down,
wicker creaking as she fidgets and settles,
fingernails hissing on silk as she straightens
the seam of her stocking. She closes her eyes
so as to not have to look at the venetian blinds
nor at the frosted door onto the corridor,
the black backwards lettering an ideogram
of mockery. She touches her toe to her purse,
feels its happy weight, heavy with the treasure
which will shortly make the man she came to see
regret he’s kept her waiting so long.