Street Party
The colour of her Kohl uncertain,
She flips the pages of the magazines.
No hints, no clues, no advice.
Disgused as the voice of reason:
Common sense.
She paints her eyes to burnt orange
To match her dark complexion,
She wears a flowery gown still in fashion
She arrives at the party
Surveying the naked eyes staring
At the starry night.
She wrecks her brains
About an ill-advice
Of staring at the stars with
Naked eyes.
Her mind is blank.
Why is no one wearing Kohl anymore?
All the females are in strippy gowns.
The invitation said flowery gowns.
Is this a postmodern take
To flowery fashion?
She takes off her glasses
And wipes them clean
The stripes are still hurting her vision
Where is she?
Why are all the familiar faces
In stripes and not flowers?
The loud music plays
Familiar tunes
Bob Marley, the Doors
She floats to the music
Ripples of her hem.
Though this enigma;
Still unresolved;
Is niggling her.
She strikes up a conversation
With a handsome
Blond youth.
He admires her Kohl
Burnt orange and all.
Pays a complement about
Her rose tinted complexion
She blushes even more.
Though the conundrum
Is still there
Unresolved.
She puts on her brave face
And asks
"The flowers are hidden
Behind the stripes."
He answers casually
No touch of irony.
How she demands to know?
"Simple," he answers,
"Dresses are multi layered"
She feels like a fool.
She reproaches to the question
Of lack Kohl.
"No one cares to hide
Their eyes no more."
The youth
Says
"I like a woman in Kohl."
Yasemin Balandi
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