Pretend

In this summer heat, we pretend.

It is 1855, and we are southern belles,

with lives of glamour and allure.

Every day drags on with that monotonous unimportance,

because we simply don't care.

But secretly, we do.

It creeps to 95 degrees; it is easier to pretend.

We elegantly fan ourselves because,

even though we know

it requires more energy than it supplies,

it sends a message of ennuyeuse.

On top of the world.

It is better to be lost in time,

than in life.

But it is tempting to recede

into the daily churning,

the daily hopelessness,

that we all face.

It is 97 degrees.

We Sprawl out on draped sofas,

looking at one another,

knowing what the other is doing,

pretending.

But we don’t say a word.