Hair perfectly coiffed,
nails manicured,
heels and A-lined dress,
apron pressed.
Her smile as plastically perfect,
pressed in place.
She carries the perfect set of cups and saucers,
balanced perfectly in her hands
across her cold, made-for-TV kitchen.
And then,
she finds herself adrift,
airborne.
As porcelain smashes,
she catches her breath and braces for impact.
It’s a reflex.
She hasn’t had time to even wonder what happened,
or to notice the rug,
missing.
*****
Sharing with Emily as I regroup:
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