L.u.a.n.n.. L.a.n.d.o.n
A New Woman in Town
One dinner party almost showed her out.
Surrounded by the town's cognate elite
she thought of words like "snarl" and "spit" and "snout."
Given a drawing room, she'd take a street.
(Tacky and cute, she came from "somewhere else."
She was an old man's darling, not his kin's.
Too fresh, she seemed to blare out decibels
of country rock that shook the porcelains.)
Drinking too much and feeling caught and caged,
she came on fast to one good-looking man.
His wife smiled sweetly down, serene, enraged,
ranked her with multitudes outside their clan.
Her husband passed away (and just in time),
left her the richest woman in the town.
Black-veiled, she was the funeral's paradigm.
The Altar Guild somewhat revised its frown.
She bought a May-green farm, a mile southeast,
stocked it with dogs and horses (thoroughbred),
decked out the house in plushy arriviste.
She ran a Bed and Breakfast, mainly Bed.
Years passed, and now her scandal has grown old.
People don't talk if nothing's left to say.
She's known to feed stray kittens when it's cold,
take dinner to the shut-ins Christmas Day.
She makes a genteel profit at her banks,
lends freely with no thought of sabotage,
sends, on the closing date, a note of thanks
and cheer to debtors in her entourage.
Her shoes are sensible, her hair is white.
Always her voice is Southern-lady low.
Lately, she's delicate and scared at night.
She has a yesing way of saying no.
At last she's got the substance and the style.
The town's still on its dignity, and yet
contrition's shadow underneath her smile
makes gentlefolks forgive, if not forget.
Men and Death
Men charge around on earth, in air,
smashing Death to smithereens,
and yet pretending It's not there,
sun-struck, forever in their teens.
Women, to propagate the race,
love foolish men (and so they must),
have mud more often in their face,
go down more easily to dust. |
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