Feet at a Party

a poem by Jan Oskar Hansen

Lost a fork on the floor
at a posh dinner party
held by the Indian ambassador in Lisbon
and saw the eerie sight of feet
that seemed to have a life of their own,
independent of the bodies
above the table.

Bejeweled, elegant ankles
made bashful ones feel so inferior
that as they tried to hide
behind the legs of golden chairs.
Some feet were very talkative, gesticulated,
showed their soles to anyone
and made an awful lot of silent noise.

The most restless feet belonged to a man
who tried to look superior above the table,
he drank water
while the rest drank wine,
bet he wished the party would soon be over
so he could get home kick his shoes off,
sigh deeply and light a cigar.

It was only when coming home
that I realised
that those restless feet
were mine.