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Conrad Potter Aiken - Rose and Murray
Work rating: Low

After the movie, when the lights come up, 
He takes her powdered hand behind the wings; 
She, all in yellow, like a buttercup, 
Lifts her white face, yearns up to him, and clings; 
And with a silent, gliding step they move 
Over the footlights, in familiar glare, 
Panther-like in the Tango whirl of love, 
He fawning close on her with idiot stare. 
Swiftly they cross the stage. O lyric ease! 
The drunken music follows the sure feet, 
The swaying elbows, intergliding knees, 
Moving with slow precision on the beat. 
She was a waitress in a restaurant, 
He picked her up and taught her how to dance. 
She feels his arms, lifts an appealing glance, 
But knows he spent last evening with Zudora; 
And knows that certain changes are before her.

The brilliant spotlight circles them around, 
Flashing the spangles on her weighted dress. 
He mimics wooing her, without a sound, 
Flatters her with a smoothly smiled caress. 
He fears that she will someday queer his act; 
Feeling his anger. He will quit her soon. 
He nods for faster music. He will contract 
Another partner, under another moon. 
Meanwhile, `smooth stuff.` He lets his dry eyes flit 
Over the yellow faces there below; 
Maybe he`ll cut down on his drinks a bit, 
Not to annoy her, and spoil the show. . . 
Zudora, waiting for her turn to come, 
Watches them from the wings and fatly leers 
At the girl`s younger face, so white and dumb, 
And the fixed, anguished eyes, ready for tears.

She lies beside him, with a false wedding-ring, 
In a cheap room, with moonlight on the floor; 
The moonlit curtains remind her much of spring, 
Of a spring evening on the Coney shore. 
And while he sleeps, knowing she ought to hate, 
She still clings to the lover that she knew,— 
The one that, with a pencil on a plate, 
Drew a heart and wrote, `I`d die for you.`
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