The days of dainty napery,
            salt bowls, and centerpieces
are done. Foreclosed, a home’s a house;
            the signs say short-term leases.
The royal treatment? Who has time?
             Boxed wine, a deli platter,
and it’s a party—not to say
            decorum doesn’t matter
in Pleasant Bluff, just people’s sense
            of reciprocity
has changed—from canine palaces
            complete with filigree
and eaves, to little knitted caps
            fitted to pickle jars,
sympathy hams, or Christmas wreaths
            in the grills of burnt out cars.
That’s why, despite her wild hairs,
            Wynona aims to bring
a sense of old Colonial style
            to the latest next big thing:
when others at the beauty shop
            choose lighting bolts or hearts,
she asks the cosmetologist
            to wax her lady parts
but leave a pineapple design
            (which, once the splotches fade,
looks something like a monkey paw,
            maybe a hand grenade).
But either way, Wynona’s lover
            doesn’t say a word,
just flaps himself against her lintel
            like a manic bird,
until she understands he’ll never
            give a hoot about
the logic of her welcome, though
            he gladly wears it out.
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