Cook

The cook has his own problems; pragmatic,
a taskmaster without sentiment,
he calls her "Furry Creature'. But tonight,
for half an hour, she may view the ball —
why not? Let her glimpse what she can't have:
the chandeliered hall dizzy with dancers,
the hummingbird hover of violins…
He sees her only in small dim places.
How could he know her soul's chamber resounds
with oceanic dreams, the spheres' music?