A handful of husbands
were scattered through the maze
of ladies playing bridge
in the church hall yesterday.
A plate of sandwiches
swathed in clear plastic
waited on each table along with
pickles and some jelly beans.
There were some rolled
banana and peanut butter
and some cream cheese
egg salad, salmon salad, ham,
and something like a cross
between salmon and ham.
But I thought of my mother:
how they all wore hats
and the sandwiches were
all white bread or pink of blue
crusts were trimmed
and no man would darken the door.
It was a day out
away from the washing machine
with its thumping plungers and
threatening rollers to watch
and bluing for the whites
and starch and ironing and
dusting and scrubbing and
delicate gloves for cracked red hands.
They loved it.
