the French beret

She wore a black cap;
it was a little French beret.
He painted landscapes without much to say.
The wine was red.
I couldn't hear much that was said by Ned;
he was the most abstract and carried more body fat
than I remember from before.
A piano was on the floor
and a sax played soft music by the front door.
Money was put into a bowl.
On her face was a dark mole
and one breast was flat.
I saw newly upholstered chairs and sat.
More than a dozen but less than twenty eight
people arrived late.
Hand-blown glass ornaments were cleverly hung
but no Christmas carols were sung
even in season and, no, I didn't ask for a reason.
It was Friday night, after all, and I'm not very tall
but still managed to climb the stairs past the still lifes mostly in green
where I didn't want to be seen.
I saw no unsigned paintings and only one sold;
at least that's what I was told.
The gallery inside was cheery and warm, the outside cold.
Hanging around were a few artists and one cat
wearing a thin collar but no hat?
She asked me if I'd eat some Swiss cheese
and I opened my mouth to say please.