Portrait of a Lady
by Theodora Goss

She sits on a stone bench
in the city park, under a bush
of pink roses, probably
something like Maiden’s Blush,
because they have so many
petals — you know the kind
I mean, that blossom in June
and release, if you lean in closely,
the most delicious perfume.

She is reading a book — I can’t seem
to make out the title, but certainly
some classic work of literature.
She looks the type to be reading
Tolstoy or Jane Austen, or perhaps
Agatha Christie, who knows.
Well, the roses leaning over her shoulder
that drop pink petals on the pages,
they know, of course.
And she is waiting
for someone — I can tell because
she keeps checking her watch.
I would like to think
she is waiting for someone she loves.
That would match
her general air of ease and elegance,
her essential civility.
Which is why I have called this poem
Portrait of a Lady.

Such an old-fashioned term, suitable
for a romance, or, of course, a tragedy.
Which I hope this is not —
although who knows.
Except, of course, the roses.
They know everything.
Every little thing.

They always do, damn it.

(The images is In the Rose Garden by Robert Panitzsch.)