tHE BEAUTY

She was pretty once.
You can see it still;
Though worn, its relicts
mark a face which once had drawn
interest which had lingered
more than was quite polite,
but was gratifying all the same.
How long was that ago?
When did she first become aware
that her presence had lost its glow
and that strangers' eyes scanned
her lightly now, sending messages
of indifference when once
they'd been electrical?
When did she become aware that
her power to fascinate had gone?
That the generality of her appeal
had narrowed to the particular:
and in particular, the man
who sees the face
of the woman he loves;
a face he'll always adore?