An old woman, the line on her face a roadmap,
Sits at a wooden table with a soda in her hands.
She stares off into the distance,
Like an old owl.

Her earrings are sparkly raindrops,
Her hair is like a beehive.
It is as if she never left the 1960s.

She shows all the signs of high class.
She has old money and a rich husband.
She is an elegant, old swan.

Her husband comes for her and offers his arm.
She stands, shaking like a brittle leaf.
She and the man leave the bar,
A king and queen among a room full of commoners.