The Sibyl

She was an aggressively unattractive old woman,
Sitting there behind the table in the hotel corridor.
Nothing could make her interesting or pathetic,
Although to be on duty at midnight

Proved her lot unfortunate.

From her topknot of grey, escaping, withered hair
To her fat, delaying hands,

She precluded pathos;

Even her melancholy attempt at finery,

A faded imitation coral necklace,
Seemed only dirty and dull.

Hers was a hard lot indeed,

Yet I could not pity her.

I asked for a pencil.

She gave me one, and grudged the doing it heartily.
When I reached my room, I found that the pencil had a rubber on the end.

Cursed old sibyl!
What do you mean by uttering prophecies
At midnight,

In a hotel corridor!