There are twelve gold plates
and thirteen guests.

They don't know,
I would have eaten off paper.
I would have eaten the scraps
off the floor.

As it is,
I am not invited.

I could stay home.
Read. Organize the linens.
Take a long hot bath.
Dream.

I could go to the party.
Bring my own plate.
Perhaps, a covered casserole.
We would all laugh
at the golden plates.
How silly.

I could go out.
Find another party.
Bring home something sweet...

I dress carefully.
Black silk. Very tight around the bosom.
The underwires pinch.
I paint.
Ochre to my lips. Cobalt to my eyes.
My nails, jet.

I wait outside the door.
Inside, there is laughter.
There is the tinkling of ice.
There is the scent of fresh bread,
red wine, tangerines.

Men tell jokes,
amusing stories.
Women lean in close,
let their breasts show.

There is movement against my shin.
I twitch.
It is only the cat.
It too, uninvited.

I make my entrance,
curse them all.

Poetry

© 1998 Leslie Laurence