G W E N D O L Y N B R O O K S (1917-2000)
Mrs. Small
Mrs. Small went to the kitchen for her pocketbook
And came back to the living room with a peculiar look
And the coffee pot.
Pocketbook. Pot.
Pot. Pocketbook.
The insurance man was waiting there
With superb and cared-for hair.
His face did not have much time.
He did not glance with sublime
Love upon the little plump tan woman
With the half-open mouth and the half-mad eyes
And the smile half-human
Who stood in the middle of the living-room floor planning apple pies
And graciously offering him a steaming coffee pot.
Pocketbook. Pot.
“Oh!” Mrs. Small came to her senses,
Peered earnestly through thick lenses,
Jumped terribly. This, too, was a mistake,
Unforgivable no matter how much she had to bake.
For there can be no whiter whiteness than this one:
An insurance man’s shirt on its morning run.
This Mrs. Small now soiled
With a pair of brown
Spurts (just recently boiled)
Of the “very best coffee in town.”
“The best coffee in town is what you make, Delphine! There is none dandier!”
Those were the words of the pleased Jim Small –
Who was no bandier of words at all.
Jim Small was likely to give you a good swat
When he was not
Pleased. He was, absolutely, no bandier.
“I don’t know where my mind is this morning,”
Said Mrs. Small, scorning
Apologies! For there was so much
For which to apologize! Oh such
Mountains of things, she’d never get anything done
If she begged forgiveness for each one.
She paid him.
But apologies and her hurry would not mix.
The six
Daughters were a-yell, a-scramble, in the hall. The four
Sons (horrors) could not be heard any more.
No.
The insurance man would have to glare
Idiotically into her own sterile stare
A moment – then depart,
Leaving her to release her heart
And dizziness
And silence her six
And mix
Her spices and core
And slice her apples, and find her four.
Continuing her part
Of the world’s business.
Mrs. Small
Mrs. Small went to the kitchen for her pocketbook
And came back to the living room with a peculiar look
And the coffee pot.
Pocketbook. Pot.
Pot. Pocketbook.
The insurance man was waiting there
With superb and cared-for hair.
His face did not have much time.
He did not glance with sublime
Love upon the little plump tan woman
With the half-open mouth and the half-mad eyes
And the smile half-human
Who stood in the middle of the living-room floor planning apple pies
And graciously offering him a steaming coffee pot.
Pocketbook. Pot.
“Oh!” Mrs. Small came to her senses,
Peered earnestly through thick lenses,
Jumped terribly. This, too, was a mistake,
Unforgivable no matter how much she had to bake.
For there can be no whiter whiteness than this one:
An insurance man’s shirt on its morning run.
This Mrs. Small now soiled
With a pair of brown
Spurts (just recently boiled)
Of the “very best coffee in town.”
“The best coffee in town is what you make, Delphine! There is none dandier!”
Those were the words of the pleased Jim Small –
Who was no bandier of words at all.
Jim Small was likely to give you a good swat
When he was not
Pleased. He was, absolutely, no bandier.
“I don’t know where my mind is this morning,”
Said Mrs. Small, scorning
Apologies! For there was so much
For which to apologize! Oh such
Mountains of things, she’d never get anything done
If she begged forgiveness for each one.
She paid him.
But apologies and her hurry would not mix.
The six
Daughters were a-yell, a-scramble, in the hall. The four
Sons (horrors) could not be heard any more.
No.
The insurance man would have to glare
Idiotically into her own sterile stare
A moment – then depart,
Leaving her to release her heart
And dizziness
And silence her six
And mix
Her spices and core
And slice her apples, and find her four.
Continuing her part
Of the world’s business.
