April poem no. 4

The opera is another one of my favorite diversions. I drag my husband there several times a year. We go to the matinee, so we usually have lunch perched on chairs at the music center patio bar before the opera starts -- that's his favorite part.

The LA Opera never ceases to amaze. The productions are usually infused with the creative endeavors of people from the film industry -- imagine an opera directed by Woody Allen or a set designed by David Hockney. Sometimes the result is a little weird, as my niece says, or avante guard, one of my Facebook friends complained. I'm always enthralled and never disappointed.

At the Opera

The grand salon was ablaze in hues of crimson
enveloping the walls, the settees,
even the floors,
even the drapery, even the hoop-skirted gowns
were on fire in shades of red.
I looked at this sight in awe
of this bordello scene anxious for more
and was not disappointed.
Writhing down the staircase
like snakes, rattling their teeth,
kicking up their tails
came the black cloaked sirens. They disrobed
revealing legs and arms
and bodies encased
in fishnet. Their long red fingernails
beckoned the divas
and their twirling mates,
bedecked in gleaming
ebony patent and satin
and crisp white linen.
The sirens teased, while the divas
bellowing their glee,
pulsated their throats.
Well, what do you know? Those girls
sure can sing.