In the room, the women come and go
talking of Michelangelo.
—T.S. Eliot, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”
I felt sorry for them-
fellow, corporate wives
pencil thin, waving a martini about,
talking about fashion,
not Michelangelo
though the evening was laid out
against skies gray and tired.
I felt sorry for them-
knowing their husbands were untrue.
My own had told me
my own, my love,
had told me, and so I knew
what they did not.
but Truth, like the monster under the bed,
lay lurking for me, naïve, country-bred.
I felt sorry for them-
chauffeured, pampered, bejeweled—
wafting Chanel and silvery laughter,
contentment delineating their
postures, manicured gestures.
Through endless servings of hors d’oeuvres
with the perfectly paired wines, I
felt sorry for them
until
the mirror captured me as them,
a season too late.
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