The Cocktail Party
She’s shy, so you don’t see the horizon in her eyes
(though they’d hit you from a distance when the sun is high
a bolt of Wedgwood blue, to rival any sky)
tonight—viewed through smoky lids and veils of lashes
in chandelier-on-dimmer shadows, muddy-hued.
The freckle in her left, punctuates the sense of humour
you’d never guess—in this milieu.
She’d appeal to you, at face value, I suppose,
but at a loss after hellos; as hapless as a bee would be to butterfly,
stabbing at small-talk with the socially adept.
The smile a little too forced, the gaze a little too fixed;
feeling phobic and out of her depth; second guessing, fearing, exposed:
This, the person your friend brought to the party
on his arm, disarmed, whose face alone,
passing fair, doesn’t hold you long
and you move on. Leaving her imagining you thinking:
“Some of my friends have some pretty vapid friends.”
© Helga Ross Feb. 28, 2010