All through dinner
The violinist played.
At first offended, then
Her eyes grew soft.
His bow still rasped.
Discordant music drifted off.
I think. . . . her eyes held pity
At the last.
All through dinner
The violinist played.
At first offended, then
Her eyes grew soft.
His bow still rasped.
Discordant music drifted off.
I think. . . . her eyes held pity
At the last.
© Russ Lewis Summer, 1950