Plus ca change.
A century on,
Eliot’s women
stir pots in vacant lots,
live next door to me
whenever there’s
an occasion.
I walk over in my trunks,
tee and sandals
carrying a water can
for my flowers
to the confusion of
old women huddled
in a dark garage.
Somehow they cook
something to eat
out of propane and
not much else.
“Where’s Mrs?”
I ask and they look
confused at first,
mine not being
their only tongue.
But one knows
enough English to
peer inside the house
and call a name.
Mrs. comes quick
with a toothy smile
as she always does
happy to see me
among her friends.
“I want to spray for
wasps under my patio.
When is your company gone?”
“6 o’clock” she says
and I give thanks,
and wish her party well.
Remarkably
world peace is not
that hard to reach
on my block
with a few words
and mutual regard.
As all the while
the waspish foe
entering and departing
a hole in the ground
can wait that long
to be snuffed out
on a smoky day in August.