By Carol Barrett
Reckon I’ll be gone in three months.
You never know. I’m trying
a social experiment. The ladies
come to supper all gussied up
well before the appointed hour,
lined up in their finery like orchids
on a lean branch. But the men,
they come drab as the boondocks
like they just got off their horse
out near Lexington or Castle Rock.
And we all know the farm’s
long gone, no stallion’s kicked
that field in twenty years.
What I’m fixing to do
is wear my bow tie down to dinner,
different one every night, see
if I can get a gentleman or two
to follow suit, come to dinner
like they are going out on the town,
like they really mean it. The ladies
deserve some civility. We only have
image: “Luncheon At The Boating Party”, Pierre-August Renoir