A Portrait of a Lady

I've been sitting on this
leather bench in this cold,
sterile room for a half-hour or so,
just looking at you.
You're leaning forward in your chair,
wearing a single pearl
that hangs straight down on a thin,
silver necklace in front of your chest,
clad in some funny colour scheme.
And you're looking at me:
your forearms stacked, and hands delicately
cupping your elbows, finger nails
left bare, showing nail beds
that share a hue with your skin,
thinking of some article
in the Daily Mail
on the socio-economic ramifications
of our culture's quinoa craze,
lamenting the state of the Bolivian
farmer (who can't afford to keep
a grain to feed his kids), and probably the state
of your love life. And it's true,
the softness of your expression
does well to keep such thoughts on this
and that between the two of us.
Most others get red in the face,
arguing about what it is you're "doing"
or "saying," with your hands positioned
as they are, or with that pearl
around your neck falling as it does.
Who cares about all that?
You're thinking of a woman
in the next room, herself a subject
of this sort of gaze
that commonly falls on
your well-groomed, well-lit members
of our history's upper crust.

Quickly, my thoughts of you move to thoughts
of your owner's: a well-groomed,
well-dress, well-bred
parliament of collectors of the fine stock.
You and I both question their taste
as we ponder that gaudy frame they've
got you in. I think I'd change that.