Women Friends

     There you are scooping out summer from
a tin can campground in the dunes of Provincetown.
     Spreading a slather of cottage cheese 
to the far edges of buttered toast.
     Pawing through the trash for a lost gold bracelet
or was it two silver spoons.
     With a straight face you claimed that dust 
was mahogany’s protective crust.
     You hurled tea cups at the wall when the old Singer
went zig-zag instead of straight.
     Your collection of huddled perfume bottles was
like a convention of flamingoes gabbling at the shore.
     I reach back for all of you: those who bird,
those who can’t fold a map, those who never 
     breathe a word, the mistress of grammar, 
the ones who stopped going to church and those
     who believe in Herbes de Provence.
Without you, there would be no pazazz,
     no dazzling glass rings, no speeding tickets, 
no weddings with lopsided cakes,
     no kick of nasturtium along with the gin.

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