Exquisite Legacies

She sits, upright, aristocratic, prim –
and yet a touch Bohemian – skin faintly blue,
whilst airily dismissing you –
she’s heard it all before,

she longs for some long-gone great tide of mind:
some grandeur with which she can faintly
recollect she once was satisfied.
She swears to – wears – exquisite legacies with pride:

thinks she smells the spell of Ottoline Morrell,
breathes a subtle sigh for the Contesse de Noailles
and bids us pray, with Nadia Boulanger,
she’ll someday find that worthy protégé –

at least a hint of something that won’t bore.
She guards the door –
she is the one whom I implore
to like my little art.

She’d like to stop my every start.
She hasn’t any heart.
But that’s okay.
I do it anyway.

.