By Chivas Sandage

While the talker talks
you listen – the slight tilt
of your head upon that pale

stalk of neck suggests
Goodness. Your eyes blink

to punctuate
fine taste, that old

code of Lady. Trapped
by the monologist,

you do not
protest–the civilized

lie protects you from
what you want: that

cigarette, that
highball, that

bulge
in black, pleated trousers

across the room.
Your crossed legs slowly

cross again, knees together, gingerly
shifting your hips as if

fragile
or dangerous.