by Anne Stevenson
The ladies sit at the table
Where the butler hovers and waits,
Tittering over the silver,
Dangling their pearls in their plates,
While wine in their bubbling glasses
Drifts up and evaporates.
The gentlemen loosen their trousers
In the leather arms of their chairs,
Make love to their whiskies and sodas,
Bawl to the girls upstairs,
‘We’re waiting to start till you join us.’
The gay crowd never appears.
The servants drop dead at their stations,
Weeds grow over their heads.
The ladies are changed into lizards,
The lords into quadrupeds.
While the poets get drunk in the kitchen,
The children dream in their beds.
From:
Collected Poems 1955-2005
Copyright ©:
2005, Bloodaxe Books
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