His Entrance Was Purple by Joyce Rogers

His Entrance Was Purple

His entrance was purple.
His skin, so smooth...so dark.
His head encapsulated
The soft glow of bald.

There was a soft hush,
In the room as the ladies
Took note of his entrance.
My eyes opened and inhaled him.

I maintained my cool,
But my heart fluttered for
The presence behind that
Purple silk shirt.
My words could not speak.
My palms became warm and damp.

His entrance was purple.
He was built like ancient stone.
Yet his movement
Was the fluid rhythm,
Of timed machinery.

A married Mary started
Talking to me again.
Oh I wish she'd shut up!
I was trying to concentrate.
Was this man my dream or my fate.

He looked toward our table.

My heart stopped.
If I could but touch, his purple,
Would I be healed?
My flesh said yes and my heart
Became unconcealed...
Whispering (amid Mary's jabbering) "I want him."

Five minutes had almost past,
I wondered how much longer
My deliriums would last.
Then a scene slowly unfolded before me
And I bowed my head and cried.
He sat down at our table
And kissed Mary...his new bride.

Copyright © 2002 by Joyce Rogers

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