Fitzsimmons Returns.

A lady and her maid.

The mirror never lies,
Your mother said.
You look in it now,
The mirror reflects
You in the midst
Of half way dressing.
You hold the green
Corset strings, waiting
For the maid Fitzsimmons.
You’ve rung for her twice.
No sight of her or sound.
Been busy, she’ll say,
Have other things to do
Other than run around
After you. And she’ll say it
In that Irish tongue of hers,
With her deep blue eyes
Peering into your eyes
As if she sought your soul.
You fidget. Pull the strings.
Stare in the large mirror.
She’s done your hair
Nice enough as she can
And does, then ran off
To the ring of some bell
From some other quarter.
You pull the strings tighter.
Breath in, pull even tighter.
She even laid out the clothes,
Neatly as she does; shoes
Polished to a bright shine.
You stiffen and listen.
A loud voice bellows
Down the passage;
The canaries in the cage,
Take flight in fright.
Fitzsimmons returns,
The passage vibrates.
Your thin fingers hold
The green corsets strings,
They visibly shake,
The maid is coming,
She sings, the swish
Of her stiff black dress,
You gaze in the mirror,
See eyes and hair
And a touch of fear
Burning there.

Author's Note

painting by Pierre Carrier-Belleuse.