Debutante, Eleventh Hour

An imploring sigh issues from
cob-webbed lungs
and curls raspy and melodic,
just like the too-many cigarettes
she had smoked at galas
and benefit dinners
a lifetime ago

It diffuses
and seeps into atmosphere
high above the Manhattan skyline;
it mingles with thunderheads
over the Kansas plains

Who says the offering is adequate just because?

Still,
the old crone stands transfixed,
warm granite in a quicksand square,
and shakes the horizon with her rattling breath;
She's all clenched fists and gritted teeth:

clock's ticking.

The corners of her mouth are
crumpled arrowheads that fall to a fleeting earth
and splinter into fine powder hued peach and rose

Then follows the grand arch of her spine,
stately lineage faced with imminent demise

ground by time, brittle bones
offer little protest in the twilight

She asks only:

"Can't I keep my pearls?"

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Also, here's a link to the Diane Arbus photograph "Debutante of the Year, at home, 1966" She was my inspiration for the final poem. I know this is a lot--and I surely expect feedback--but there's no rush. Not like finals are imminent or anything...