The dress was a vested interest
In looking good; the hair drifted down,
Soft Grecian lines that curled
Over sun-browned skin
Camouflaging freckles on her back.
Roving eyes took in the seated diva;
Her throne(worth all the tea in China,
Maybe more) was The Solar Bird,
A bronze, by Miro.
Her exit was the East Wing’s nearest door.