I was the wench
with a fake accent;
breasts to match - and you,
the jester who could
not be quieted.
Here there were
silver platters
piled with food to be served
to the waiting throngs, and
the guests, in want of
fork or knife, continued
to play and laugh on
at it all - because the jester
could not be quieted.
I was glad for you
in my company then,
with all your happy glory;
wayward glances,
forlorn dances through
the glass pane room, on
a night where I finally
found my voice.
Years pass, and now
I hear your banjo strum
with fuel in the lyrics,
voice unyielding in loss.
Who she was I may
always wonder, but
myself, I will forever
know.
Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.
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