HEELS UPON THE TILE
When I consider your devoted eyes,
devoid of any vice I could reject,
alive with avid interest, subtly flecked,
and focused on my face with slight surprise,
it seems as though I had disturbed a séance
in which the phantoms of the past collect,
to see in me preposterous, weird nuance,
dramatic as mascara when it dries.
For me, then, there can be no more denial
you love me. I shrink back in re-appraisal,
to closely clutch suspicion like a vial
with my own blend of rosewood and witch-hazel,
strike my stiletto heels upon the tile,
and properly return your proper smile.