He skips out lithe and tense into the light,
Throws off his gown, and smiling, lifts his hands
With a theatric gesture, opening fingers,
Like a vain child. And having rippled slowly
Under the smooth white tights the gleaming muscles,
Smiling again, he turns; and lifts black weights,--
Staggering, flushing deep his face and neck,--
To drop them with a crash. She, sweet and blonde,
Stands by (in white tights too), smiles at the people,
Catching the handkerchief he tosses to her
When he has wiped his hands; and at the end,
Feigning timidity, sits in a chair
Which he heaves up to balance in his teeth.
But as she sits there, waving frantic hands,
And sees his coarse red fist gesticulating,
She looks down on him with a look of hatred,
And wishes he would only burst a vein.
"Where did you get that ring?" he said to her,
While they were waiting turn. She looked at it,
Twisting her head to this side and to that
To see it sparkle. "What is that to you?"
"That drummer gave it to you. I've seen him watch you."
"What if he does?" "You cut it out, that's all!
Don't you forget that time that I half-killed Schmidt."
She smiled at him. "Why drag that up again?"
Then, they went on,--he quivering, she cool....
And as she caught his handkerchief, she turned
Disgusted from him, thinking of her lover;
And how he said in his delicious voice,
"I'll meet you Thursday night at half-past ten."