Gala

Crumpling ankles, too many Lemon Drops, plus
a Vodka Martini. And gowns galore. (I committed
the faux pas of stepping on someone's train!)
After the sojourn to the restroom, completely lost,
and the lovely young woman at reception
asked if I wanted her to take my arm,
and I gave in to her direction, and she
safely escorted me back to my table.
(It's important at these Gala Functions
to fully play the part of The Poet.
Does anyone care, though? Does
anyone notice? I doubt it.) After coffee
and a nipple-topped chocolate mousse-like dessert,
the room regained its focus. Those damned spike heels
will be the death of me or will be the
sprained-ankle of me. How we suffer
in the name of fashion and beauty and silk pleats
with just a hint of toe showing. And sequins
at the neckline. I wore my mother's glass-bead
necklace, black. We bid on nothing
but when the Week At Carrowholly (Paul's gracious donation)
came up in the live auction, there I was on the screen
in full April glory, wrapped in my green Irish shawl,
reading Yeats on the bench outside the house
with Clare Island looming in the blue
and cat's-eye green distance.