Watcher

You can only see him from the corner of your eye
—a wisp, a blur, a shadow. His art
is to remain hidden. He walks
on slippered feet, stands
behind velvet curtains.

When a guest drops a silver spoon onto the Turkish carpet,
he whisks it away before anyone notices.
The wine is poured, the soup is served. The guests
lean in over stemware and dinner plates,
telling tales, laughing.

They suck flesh off tiny quail bones, crack
lobster claws, slurp
oysters from their shells, belch
discreetly behind linen napkins.

They do not see him there,
watching.