Effigy in Sepia
A portrait dug out of a family closest, some unnamed embarrassment fit only for the trash bin, marked obscenely with a price tag in phosphorescent lime.
A humbled paragon, forced to display her shame, forever.
The photograph is old, classic sepia stained with umber tears.
Tawny hair, light brown or blond, done in period curls-smooth, even spirals that skip over shoulders encased in white lawn, falling majestically to cover her half-developed form.
Her eyes are dark, substantial pools of placid resignation, perhaps overly wide and deep in her bird-like face. They lay beneath fine brows, cradling her smooth, thin nose between them.
Below the smooth line of her pale nose wine-dark lips hold themselves in gentle repose. A hint of melancholy sits tucked away in the small, pointed corners of her smile.
The family came from money then, not that the money is all gone now, but it has lost it's classic elegance in the passing years.
Her dress is of white lawn, edged in cobweb lace and ebony ribbon. Wrists and neck are held delicately in intricate clouds.
Even more spotless than the dress that encases her are the snow-pure gloves that rest lightly on the arms of her wheeled prison, the proud tension holding then not dimmed by time.
Handsome shoes of jet calfskin dangle inert, pointed at the grass beneath her in mocking stillness.
Entranced, I placed a five dollar bill in front of the greedy cow who watched me with suspicious eyes.
Heedless of her waspish cries for my return, I left, cradling my lost angel to my chest.