The Ladies Central

They stand, in a semi-circle,
at the end of the cul-de-sac
every evening.

Wearing the standard
suburban mommy uniform-
skorts or capris,
rhinestone studded t-shirts,
sparkling, sequined sandals,
and chunky gold bracelets.

Their hair perfected
by a pound of hairspray.

I am out of place
in cut-off Levis
and an old white t-shirt,
Bass sandals from tenth grade,
my hair wild and free.

They compare tans,
husbands
and plastic surgeons.
They move in unison,
heads tilt,
brushing hair
from smooth foreheads,
checking the time
on expensive-looking watches.

I gently rub
my empty wrist.

They talk in bored, flat voices
about the South Beach Diet
versus Atkins.

Dropping designer names
as if they had lunch
with them yesterday.

They expound upon the virtues
of their children
as if the accomplishments
belong to them.

They ask who did
my family room.

Did what to it?

With the flick
of a bejeweled,
red fingernail,
they push me
out of the circle.

I don't speak
fluent designer.

It's okay.

I can talk
in many languages
they've never even
heard of.

Learn more about this author, Kat Apf.
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