What goes on in that building, Evita?
An anonymous woman sees her name up in lights.
It is the last thing I see from my high-rise every evening –
there is a secret industry
built on whispers
in my dreams.
Everyone knows that there are certain parties,
held so covertly that the guests never arrive.
And I know for certain that the shop called
“World of Furniture”
can only be so called
if the armchairs come alive.
Armed with my camera,
I am here to take a picture –
but all I can see is this building with a name.
Maybe I am standing,
or always sleeping upright;
either way I’m overcome
by the smell of her perfume.
Welcomed like a President
into the ugliest of factories,
she invites me over
like a chair from its own World.
from the street below,
does wonders for the atmosphere
The cars are pleased to see her leave,
as are other things that go.
Automatons once invaded the ballroom –
when machines made room
for formal affairs.
Someone will slip up on somebody’s
– it’s no use waiting for golden cherubs to sing.
The windows are the many eyes of
a woman called “Evita”.
She will ring the doorbell,
And our eyes will let in dust.