by Con Chapman
We stood at intermission, sipping wine from plastic “glasses”
As the crowd surged, some urgent, some aimless, around us.
We hadn't much to say as we watched the passing scene;
Enough vanity for a king's court, enough jewels for a queen.
A woman who by rights should have been bent by age
Stood at the bottom of the stairs, as if to enter a stage.
She strode, her carriage erect, across the hall with a presence
That suggested youth and denied her senescence.
I asked “Do you know her?” and came the answer:
“That white-haired old woman? She was once a dancer.”
Included in the anthology "Bliss."
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