i weave
through tangles of legs sheathed
in slacks and cocktail dresses
and bulging strands of pearls that nestle
against throats and smell of wine.

i dash
past the man in the kilt
as he pauses to readjust
the bagpipes that hang loose
at his hip before he begins another ballad.

i wait
for the quiet
that pierces the room before more talk can filter
and open my own mouth
to sing.

and i do not notice
the applause that starts –
soft at first,
then louder, louder,
that builds in tempo and rockets
with rhythm
until the whole room might burst with the sheer audacity
of the sound of hands clapping

in unison
for a little girl
and Bobby Burns.