DINNER PARTY

Glass in hand and a polite smile
Stand I, nodding and pretending,
As her inane chatter washes over me;
She, clad in a tube tank
With sagging breasts and a lined face
Empty eyes framed by a fringe
Prattles, as I seem to listen.

The rum is diluted, the cola bitter
The ice almost dissolved,
Beads of sweat trickle down my back
As the crowd sometimes ebbs, often swells.
Faint with the strain
I quietly turn my head to seek
That one face, any face that I would like to see.

Laughter floats and pierces
As men slap each other on their backs,
Ribald and merry;
The women huddle and chatter
About this one and that
Her saree, his posting, my kids
Their wealth!

Lost in her own voice
The empty tube drones on and on
About the avarice of her small child.
Pride in her voice at his craftiness
And guile,
Silently I nod, wondering
Is this what is life?

A misfit was I in that crowd
Finding, not one, not a single soul
With whom I could communicate
My thoughts
With whom I could sip and talk and share and smile
My genuine smile
And not that plastic fake plastered on my visage.

Here we go round the mulberry bush,
At 12 o' clock in the night.
Circles on circles of boredom
Music that doesn't seep
Drinks that don't quench
Words that don't matter
Persons who don't exist

A misfit am I
Wonder where in the world will I ever fit?

~Glowing Embers~