Not June Cleaver
I've said it before, I'll say it again. I am not the pearls and apron type. Thing is, if given my druthers (and what are druthers, anyway?) if given 15 minutes and a blank sheet of paper, nine (maybe 8) times out of ten, I'll write about food, or housewifery (is that a word) or June Cleaver, or some sort of dirge on the topic. Could be all the feminist training in college. Could be the build up and subsequent let down of getting married and finding that my husband didn't really care if I used fine china and cloth napkins, served homemade macaroni and cheese or Kraft, or quite frankly, if I cooked at all.
This is my voice. The voice of the girl never allowed to cook with her mother (too messy). Never allowed to set the table (too slow). To be honest, I don't recall wanting to do any of those "girly" things. I just like to rib my mom about it now. But, there is some part of me, or my muse, who longs to be June Cleaver. Who longs to prop my husband's feet up on an ottoman, fetch his pipe and martini, and whip up coq au vin in a lace apron and pearls. Yeah, right!
In my on-line poetry class we had to pick a place name at random, NOT "google" it, and come up with a place poem. I envisioned a casserole-laden utopia. Here's my offering for this week's Poetry Thursday prompt...in my own, very non-June Cleaver voice!
You might think it’s a deep, deep well,
plummeting between two towering rock mountains,
but what it is, really,
is a little town in a medium state,
just off-center of these United States.
It’s a place where all the wives go
when they need a cup of sugar.
The town to visit when you’ve got that song
whining and humming,
stuck in your head.
running from, running to,
often stop here.
There are doilies on every sofa arm. It is not a stretch
to say, if you look closely, you might even see
a davenport or two, hidden under a pair
of neatly pressed polyester slacks and a see-through plastic cover.
The casseroles all come out at seven
in Patsy Canyon. Problem is, the husbands
haven’t shown up for years. No sign.
The casseroles are piling up, tuna noodle,
shepherd’s pie, chicken cacciatore.
There’s a shortage of Pyrex.
The Amanas and the Kenmores are overheating.
Some have quit throwing heat for good.
It’s the revenge of the abandoned ovens
in Patsy Canyon. Cocktails at six.