. . . grips a tapered wine glass, nearly drained,
Beneath a gold band and engagement gem;
Ham-fisted, left-hand fingers round the stem,
Forefinger lifted, fattened with the strain.
The symptoms of her sloe-eyed pose are pained,
Her lips pulled wide and reddened. Under them,
The edges of her V-dart collar hem
Conceal, almost, the goblet. Golden-veined
In theme, the lavish suite behind her speaks
Of debts and delegations fit for kings,
Troubadour orchestras, prime execution,
Absolute power and official leaks.
The velvet of its jetty panels sings
Of coups d’état, Rousseau and revolution.
And here, in this, she wears true blue, couture
In polished rayon, modernist in flair
And line; the padded shoulders — broad …