I’m summoned,
Beckoned by the understated curl of a single finger,
The nail long, blood red, filed to a point.
The command is unmistakable.
But the rhythm of the room – not empty, not packed – continues to beat:
The gentle hum of bored chatter,
The ice in drained glasses clattering in accompaniment;
Suits and flowery dresses
Unobservant, immutably ignorant of us and of our purposes.
But as I wander through their casual clusterings,
I shiver - a delicious ecstasy of terror -
In glorious dread of what I must soon endure.