A Lady at Dinner

Free verse.

A walking canvas
layered in fabric, color
metal and paint.

She is silent
passing through
heavy doors, the bustling
room and idle chatter.

It is not enough to be polished,
girls in training observe
marveling the Revlon scarlet lacquer
of the lady as she opens her lace fan.

It is a statement.
The classics never die,
beauty is timeless,
accessories are undertones
and conversational pieces.
An artist in appearance,
she manipulates each breath
as men spin truths.

Her unadorned left hand
choreographed with
sweeping movements
from the fan,
rips through stale words
as it clutches the Victorian ornament.

The lady is defined by her hands.
Displaying,
directing attention,
enhancing conversation
she controls the room.

Sips from the lady's glass
lead envious, green eyes to hers.
It is not a challenge.
It is an invitation.
Girls need models
to show them how to play
the female role.
The lady complies,
instructing meticulously
with black widow eyes.

The awkward girls follow her
movements.
They mirror feigned laughs,
to the handsome bachelor,
smirk as the champagne fills their glasses
they giggle when it refills their glasses.
The lady passes on a third taste.

The piano begins
as plates are cleared.
The girls on the floor stumble
and leave arms and space open
for the lady to make her move.

After a turn,
the lady prepares to leave.
The bachelor holds the door,
the lady takes her coat
and a kiss.

She has taught a lesson tonight.

The lady lifts her hand
as she walks away,
swaying with each solitary step
away from the fallen girls.