Perfectly polished

 
She was a beautiful lady
something just kept her 
from her perfect life?
she lived alone, with five cats
I never ever saw her with anyone
she did smile, on rare occasions 
her clothes perfectly pressed 
I'd go as far to say, she was always colour coordinated too
her shoes always looked freshly polished
and her handbag
big enough for keys and some money    
one day I saw her
eating at a restaurant alone on a corner table 
I was sat with my fifth glass of rosé a few tables down
in company that was truly abysmal in so many ways
not to mention it was always me that picked up the bill
so there I was in my own little world reflecting
and it suddenly struck me...
maybe she was actually living her best life, her most perfect life?
and it was in fact I 
who lived with the imperfections?
after all, my shoes are never perfectly polished
and I’m never colour coordinated
but I do smile a lot.