The Showgirl

The stage is set but only while the bubbles remain in view. Too soon, they too will rise above to burst in the cold air of normality above. The green stalks are too straight and too dry in their medicinal receptacle to be anything other than a prop of an entertainer. The feathers may be peahen or cock but are wizened like the citrus of the mixed peel in the stale air. This is no time for childish fun or humour. My pearls are broken, so is my voice. All that is left is the empty chest, a relic of an unused life. The phone call was never returned, no sorcery offers time travel.