A Souvenir from 1895

Pale light ebbs in like the patter of a stone hurled over pondwater

the vividity permeates each crevice of her pupils

She recalls this—this—a memory suspended somewhere

in between the imperial clasps at the turn of the century.

Rapid pupils, and the swan gliding astride the

stream with its ducklings. Svelte finger lengths snug in Vienna silk,

the minuscule flare erupting on the brunt of a cigar. The centerpiece is

a vision of a modern debutante and an aged empire her backdrop

The gentleman—there, with the ink-hued waistcoat—possesses several hundred

yards of land in Küstenland and Bukovina within his inheritance.

The cigar departs his lips, his pointed chin dipping while he scans the mignardise.

The gentry’s shared delight. Spun sugar and velvety caramel, warm honeyed biscuit 

seeping through its pores, the crème de la crème of the guarded world they’ve erected.

“You’ll get your smoke all over it,” hisses the debutante. “you’ll taint it!”

An eyebrow arches, his wrist rolls and he straightens

like the Cobras over in the British Raj. Caged for the crime of sporadicity. 

The essence cannot be accommodated, the existence precarious

though make an effort to observe just how exquisite their patterns are! 

Simply an abomination blessed with the most pleasing of countenances and 

a prodigal beast, hatched in pride by the dual monarchy.

“What has been profoundly tainted cannot be further marred,” responds he, 

adjusting his waistcoat around his shoulders.

The debutante gawks.