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