The Socialite- I

The Mrs. Astor inspected

The mahogany table, 

Stretched to accommodate sixteen, 

Hovered over the polished silver 

Like a Supreme Commander examining her fleet,

Flatware laid out like the Spanish Armada, 

Reflecting the Italian embroidered tablecloth, 

Sailing on still white seas.

The Mrs. Astor sat at the head of the table

And dined on Monday evening

In her 5th Avenue mansion.

Hair coiffed to a high station,

Posture in perfect axis,

Bedecked in pearls and a tiara like a chandelier,

Her lavender dress picking up 

Glints of violet hues in the floral wallpaper.

The Mrs. Astor, surrounded 

By the top sixteen of the four hundred,

Played a little game with herself

To find the poorest among them;

Peered through each guest, 

Peered three generations back, 

Peered into the origins of their wealth,

With her heavy, savvy, inscrutable folded brown eyes,

Scanning for cracks 

In the veneer of respectability;

A self-conscious laugh, an inappropriate question,

A dreadful, belabored manner.

The Mrs. Astor gazed

Upon this vision of high society,

This inner sanctum of the elite,

Listening to the urbane, witty, poetic conversation and thought

This is the sound of civilization.

The sound of clever colloquials and 

Clinking cups of high tea.

The sound of high heels on marble floors,

The cacophony of high finance.

The sound of the gears of a grandfather clock,

The sighs of a bored brood, lounging in the parlor

Waiting to go to the opera,

The sound of prestige, like the seal of a well-made door closing,

One where you can hear the brass lock spring shut.

The sound of deference as people hold that door open

Because the hierarchy is real.

The sound of wealth in the pregnant silence 

Of the view, one hundred twenty-nine floors

Above Central Park South.

The sound above the din of yearning and ceaseless talking,

Above the fifth floor walk-ups and sunless railroad apartments.

The sound above the reading rooms, 

The swirling eddies of cogitation,

The luxuriousness of thinking.

The sound of death above the battefields,

The morning after thousands died

With the idea of civilization

Vibrating in their heads.