Host

June 25, 2013

Bright lights flash before my eyes

as girls twirl in virgin white skirts and

slide across the marble floor.

Yet my attention is not held by such glamor;

it is all smoke and mirrors, a facade, a ruse.

Bejeweled wrists lift to the ceiling,

jingling and chiming to the beat of

drums and tambourines and horns.

These intoxicated dancers and sparkling guests

act as his mask, his disguise, his charade.

Multi-colored suits mingle with the white

and men snap their fingers, clap their hands

to heighten the humming atmosphere.

I am spinning endlessly as I avoid all distraction

so I cannot lose, distort, or forget his face.

And the music continues to grow louder

as the company sloshes and spills their drinks

only to refill the crystals and repeat it once more.

He glides along the balcony with a searching gaze

that hunts, picks, and pries.

But I am once again caught up in the crowd

and I push and shove to catch his roving eyes

though such attention does not belong to me.

So I follow that desirous stare and I wonder

why my entertainer hosts, hides, and wants.

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