red doilies

like a pack of rabid dogs –

dilated, shining eyes

with muddied feet, they stampede

across the gleaming marble floor

department store 

diamond-studded,

polished displays

cooled by waterfalls of cashmere 

the mob rushes forth,

towards a gilded cornucopia

a palette of ivory doilies –

soft, buttercream lace 

they descend –

a swarm of locusts,

snatching blindly

at the stacks

tearing paper,

a package rips,

doilies explode 

into a flaxen shower

in the frenzy,

an older one,

gray hair and linen skin,

she kneels, help

the mob continues –

a seething tidal wave

of stomping feet

she clutches her heart, help

the palette shrinks

and the mob thickens,

doilies drifting like snowflakes

she stops

a discarded box,

adorned with champagne-colored foil,

strikes her inert face –

blood pools

the mob ignores her;

they step over the body,

rushing to leave with their spoils –

one grabs the box that hit her

the palette runs dry

as her blood spreads –

warm, oily, human

it consumes the abandoned doilies

it was too late for her,

but the doilies looked great in red 

next week, the store got a new palette –

all in gorgeous crimson