Call Her Melania

The tycoon's second wife, his trophy, stands
Beside him as the politicians come to flatter
Him. She knows the drill, performs expertly,
Smiling without joy, and tipping slightly to enable
Every sycophant to buss her cheek.
The afternoon, like all the others, drags on.
Everyone will speak, except for her. She'll
Hold her tongue, and then his hand when they
Are leaving. All the others, too, will leave,
As I regret the lifelessness that I saw
In her eyes.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 116 times
Written on 2019-06-05 at 02:21

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