Watching at the Opera
after Mary Stevenson Cassatt, In the Loge



Le Petit Duc, perhaps, is on tonight;
he barely knows. The music doesn’t stir.
He comes to Le Théâtre for the sight
around the curve from loge to loge, of her.

The stage is set – the Oeil-de-Boeuf, Versailles.
There’s arguing, then fury, ah, quel drame!
She smiles and holds her glasses to her eyes;
he watches her through his and thinks, Quelle femme.

She never turns; she finds him rather crude,
for she esteems a gentlemanly gaze.
It’s really very tiring to be viewed
directly. She prefers much subtler praise.

The opera ends. She stands – and gives a glance
towards another man, who’d watched askance.

Felicity Teague

If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Felicity Teague  would be pleased to hear them