a poem that is not about Cinderella

condemned to the boat’s hallway.

she is tipsy, feeling young and miserably lonely.

sitting across, reading news,
randomly glancing.

(unwilling to enkindle her)

she took her shoes off,
the black velvet on the modest high heel is laying on the floor, screaming void.
they were probably tight and aching on her varicose feet.

she is worn off, yet inviting like an open book.

next to me, an austere lady, wearing red coat, long years and puritanical outlook,
with The Watchtower magazine in her hands.

gazing at her, with the codemning look,
intercepting my attempts to glance.

I lowered my eyes, and looked at the old lady’s shoes.
an anchored burgundy lacquer, dogmatically leaden and mute.

the air had a smell of a boiling resin.

(I probably dozed off)

till the operator called the staff
to get ready for docking.

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