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Gloria Dubbins - not much of a name,
but trust me on my judgment, gentle reader;
in terms of Beauty, she was Hall of Fame.

We’re talking – let’s see – nineteen seventy-two,
but I’m the keeper of the Gloria Flame,
and still to me she’s better, and more true,

than all your Taylor Swifts or Amber Heards.
She did the things that gorgeous women do -
in essence, nothing. Gloria had no words.

Intelligence?  Commitment?  Are you kidding?
For babes, that stuff is strictly for the birds.
She sat immobile and observed the bidding.

I’ll tell you this, but won’t apportion blame.
You, too, would be as motionless as cedar
if you’d been dealt her hand, to play The Game.

She’s not the kind you wound up talking to.
Her presence smote you with a sort of shame:
she struck you dumb: the words would not come through.

And Gloria didn’t gravitate to herds.
Perforce, she rowed her own sublime canoe.
Her beauty left her friendless, like the Kurds.

What was her view of Comus?  Little Gidding?
I don’t have – no, I never had – a clue.
Enigma fits her.  Easily two-thirds
of all the girls acknowledged her as leader,
but oddly she was Nothing Like A Dame.

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