Off to the MET - POW

Something is taking me back in time, to a time when things were just

better, the meter of life was more even, and the glamor was still

there that now has been ticked away by the metronome of time. The

cosmetics of so much has changed that sometimes I wonder if it all was

just as it appears in the memories meted out in scenes in my mind.

It seems only yesterday that I was in my roomette, the perimeters of

which were very small, measured almost by centimeters in size, but

wishing for kilometers of space to leisurely go about readying myself

meticulously , to be plummeted into society.

Here I was , just me, having met a wonderful new beau of some stature

and he was going to take me on the Metro North into the metropolis

of New York City. The method to my madness, after all, was to mystify

this man who made my metabolism run on high. My heart was metering

its rate much higher, and I felt like I needed a pedometer on to

count the number of paces done in the small confines of my roomette,

but a tachometer would have done as well, as a speedometer was gaging

my time. I didn't want to be late for my meteoric date. The boy had

a helmet of golden locks, that sent my temperature soaring and I needed

to check it with a thermometer to be sure I wasn't running a fever. You

see, I felt the barometric pressure rising in the air, and foot lose and fancy

free as I was, I still knew my metabolic rate was out of sync.

In those days of yore, I was meticulous in the way I looked. Every little

curl on my head must be symmetrical and I twisted and turned,

doing isometric exercises accidentally, but no doubt about it, firming

my waist diameter. I checked every decimeter of my skin to make sure

it had a metallic shine. I chose an amethyst colored dress, that caressed

my asymmetrical curves, and searched my eyes, aided by glasses

styled by an optometrist, to be sure they were free of any lines showing

a timetable of age. I had no idea then, that the  metaphor for maturing

was not counted in the number of years that flew by like  meteorites.

All set to go, I heard the  metered knocking on the door, and I opened it

and there he stood, with the golden helmet of hair topped with a hat with

a metal buckle on it, so stylish I thought. He had brought me a corsage of flowers

with a   metallic bow of silver, that matched my amethyst dress beautifully. It was as

though he had connected to me with telemetry and knew what I would be wearing. 

Stepping  off the Metro north in New York City, we were  meteorically swept away

in a gunmetal taxi, stopping in front of the steps leading to the Metropolitan Opera.

Ah, Kismet.