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Mrs. Rier’s shaking hands click
her rings on the table.
At twelve,
her Skyy martini calms the shaking.
At four,
five martinis numb her kidneys
ruining the newly upholstered chair.
Behind tinted, rhinestone rimmed glasses
Mrs. Hintzen advises Mrs. Vernou
in her Norwegian accent,
Daarling, you shouldn’t be wearing
that sweater, you need a flat tummy.
Take it from me, I was a Norwegian
princess you know.
Mrs. Johnson sips at the soup dujour,
chews on its chicken meat
sucks the pieces between her teeth
and spits them onto the edge
of the doily covered saucer.
Every day the ladies sit
at four top tables and wait
for the next hand to be dealt.
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