Lunch at the Club

   We sat `neath the gable
   at our country club table
   Vi, Helen and Mabel
   and me,
   dainty white skirts to the knee.

   We had come from the court,
   tennis our sport,
   decorum our forte,
   e.g.,
   no ball hit in anger you'd see.

   In our regular places
   with healthy, bright faces
   watching sailboating races
   for free
   sipping coffee and orange juice and tea.

   Our morning meal wishes
   are served on Club dishes;
   we're always called "Mrs."
   by Bea.
   We visit and gaze out to sea.

   There are whitecaps that curve,
   blue skies to observe --
   "Would you care for preserve?
   More tea?
   Marmalade, butter or brie?"

   "Girls, the game was well played!
   Vi, the backhands you made!
   And Mabel's shots ricocheted
   by me!
   Your score was 6-2 and 6-3!"

   "The serves were plain vicious!
   Helen's half volleys delicious!
   Oh, Bea, this toast's most nutritious."
   Ah, me.
   Four lovely ladies are we.

   We nattered, we chattered
   of things that then mattered.
   Reputations were shattered
   with glee
   by Mabel, Vi, Helen and me.

   Then talk turned to Texas
   Crime was the nexus.
   And, they, as they breakfast,
   agree
   on ending a man such as he.

   "I think he should die,"
   murmur Helen and Mabel and Vi.
   "That Texan should fry.
   Yes, he
   sounds plenty guilty to me."

   Vi buttered her muffin,
   "Yes, Gary's a tough one.
   A killer, a rough one,"
   says she.
   "Toast `em and roast `em, i.e.

   "He's had no raw deal."
   "There's been an appeal."
   "His guilt is for real."
   No plea.
   In Texas he doesn't go free.

   "His son's in jail too."
   "And what did he do?"
   There was something to me.
   You see,
   crime runs in the family tree.

   "Oh, fie, let him die,"
   "I say hang him high."
   "Anyone for more pie?"
   Friends three,
   Lunch here is served with ennui.

Ruth Pizzat Erie, Pa.

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