Mr. Elite

By Tosha Michelle

Mr. Elite with a rose in his lapel,

Wearing a condescending smile,.

A mask of civility and refinement,

Underneath he is repelled.

A girl in a vintage dress, demure and shy,

Humble visage, wanting only to impress.

A heartfelt smile, a beguiling  sigh.

She briefly catches his eye.

Her apprehended affections,

Cast aside like bad tasting wine.

 Mr. Elite with the rose in his lapel.

Slowly watched as the flower fell.

And upon descending left a black spot

a permanent mark.

The proud flower,

in all its bold and illustrious wonder.

The sheen of propriety.  Gone.

Tarnish by a callous disregard.

Mr. Elite for a second wavered in his shallow ways.

But for  the girl the rose had lost it luster.