It was the fiftieth reunion, and
G., S., C., L. and K., were there, in a circle of seventy-year old women, all displaying a little flesh, jewelry, sensible pumps, chic outfits, glasses on silver chains, dyed hair, expensive scents and cameras the size of cigarette packs..
She was at the edge of the pack of other women
in a shiny, blue wrap,
holding an enormous handbag,
a double gin and tonic in the other.
Lips pursed, deep lines etched around them from smoking;
her voice hoarse from booze and Virginia Slims.
I could see a little blue of her silk bra.
She had dialed in her décolletage with care.
Her teeth, porcelain veneers, gleaming white.
She's hunting for an adventurous, energetic lad as
she waits, watches, calculates,to sink her claws
into a strapping buck.
Don't EVER call her ma'am.