Goat’s Cheese Canapes

“But what do you do all day?”
A herd of women have left their men with the beer
to jostle for position by the mulled wine ladle,
bragging of what they do to keep their brains alive and their bodies thin,
and how they do good to those who do not eat goat’s cheese canapes.

“But what do you do all day?”
The shrill bray pierces the chatter at the buffet,
is aimed at me, in itchy cocktail dress and squashed feet
who doesn’t do yoga or sing in a choir or play bridge or sit on committees
doing good to those who do not eat goat’s cheese canapes.

“But what do you do all day?”
Alone in the melee I ponder the ways I spend my time:
how I fondle a flower, raise my face to the rain, dream by the fire,
sometimes pause on the stairs to look through the window of my life,
remembering the times when I did not eat goat’s cheese canapes.

“But what do you do all day?”
With a clove on my tongue and spice at the back of my throat,
I raise my glass to the sparkling light of the crystal chandelier,
inhale the heady odour of dark red wine, then swallow the ecstasy of existing.
“Not much” I say, popping into my mouth yet another goat’s cheese canape.