She resigns herself to the background,
And I watch as he works the room.
The crowd, resting in his palm,
His slick, coy smile in front of his face.
I had seen her before this day,
She would dance, play within a crowd.
Looking out from the corner, I could see
Clearly, throughout the entire room,
None of her dancing. None of her play.
He comes to me, of course, of course-
Drink in hand, on some verbal discourse,
The same smile held up, the twinkle,
Injected in his eye, as every day before,
-Then remembers her, nursing her drink,
Running her finger in loops along the rim.
I feel bad to look at her, sitting quietly.
She should talk, or dance the way she did.
I see the smoke in her eyes, the flicker,
Need to see the inferno of her beauty again,
Not this pinched out, blackened wick.
He sees her sitting quietly, befriending a frown,
Or as an injured pet, helping her along.
A peck of lips, then leaves her to her drink,
Working, working, working all along.
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