Miss Isabel,
she handed him her resignation with the high chin
of a well-bred saint,
she felt her self-denial so gratified by her
arrogance, not by
faith;
Miss Isabel,
she loved too much the wrong idols, not even
protected by innocent, good
intentions,
she knew the danger of becoming like the rest of
those two-timing
hypocrites;
Miss Isabel,
she watched him impassively through cold, grey eyes
as he asked her for just one drop
of wine,
to numb the aching in his bones and the fever
in his brow,
but she sold him on temperance and called it
mercy;
Miss Isabel,
she kept her chin high and she looked to the clouds
for confirmation,
but all she found were empty skies without even the promise
of rain,
or shine,
just a disappointed vagueness in an otherwise perfect,
blue sky.