dinner party
Nokyoung Xayasane

There is more dignity
in the homeless people
on the streets
than there is
at this dinner party.

The crisp white napkins,
the many forks and knives and spoons.
Sometimes I want to rip
the white linen tablecloths
off the wooden tables
of this tennis club.
Splash the walls
with colours of reds and whites.
Set fire
to the vodka and bourbon and spirits
on the countertop.

I walk out in my little red dress
and an old man with white hair
says some appreciative.
I smile.
I am docile,
and accommodating,
as is my way.
This is how we act in public, I tell myself.

There is no dignity here.