Gets in a friend from five-to-ten years ago,
With hanging stuff, and a new thick golden ring.
An obliging streak makes part her hair glow
And with the barest of minimum space there could be,
Next to where I am standing, in this — the rarest of moments — she,
Half covered by her man: a preoccupied crashland.
Yes — It’s got to be her, I mentally think,
And as, with their backs to me, there
As they speak where they stand,
I hold on to the bar straight-lined with the roof
And with my shoulder shield my head, so I’d leave no proof
Even if she is to turn my way. Prevention above cure is here to stay.
The incessant talk tells me my guess
Is spot on; and as a glance I steal
I see that her toes are as hers to be real:
Save me, then Lord Below, from having small talk to make
To the possessor of flashy hair and flocks
Of fussy admirers of yore: a phenomenon. A friend. A fake.