Skip to content

They stayed at home. They didn't go far.

Trends do not move them.

From picture windows of family homes

they cast wide gazes of manifest pragmatism:

hopeful and competent, boundlessly integrated,

fearless, enviable, eternal.

Vegas, Florida, Mexico, Florida, Vegas.

With children they travel backroads

in first and last light to ball fields

and arenas of the Dominion.

We have no children. We don't own,

but rent successively, relentlessly,

to no real end. The high-school reunion

was a disaster. Our husbands got wasted

and fought one another, then with an equanimity

we secretly despised, made up over

anthem rock, rye and water. Our

grudges are prehistoric and literal.

It seems they will survive us. The girls

share a table, each pitying the others their looks,

their men, their clothes, their lives.

The Girls

Karen Solie

More from
Poem of the Week

Ed Roberson

Luxe