A Class Act
by Carol Wolrich
She wears faded, twice-repaired
which were a bargain in the
Her jokes are not art-full of
Her smile is slightly lopsided,
her virtues.She laughs from the depths
of her background, but never
Your shoes are bespoke, as polished
and trim as your manicured hands.
She bites her nails; this charms
and annoys you. You are cultivated-
cashmere. She is seventy per
of whatever she can afford.
She worries that your shoeshine
will glare on her faults. And
if she picks the wrong spoon?
Will you disown her? Blush for
You worry that her regional
will lower the tone of your
She asks you to join her and
in tough puddles, if you dare.
Instead, you arrange a date
for a black tie affair, with
called Miranda, who has high-profile
hair and a horse called Pashmina.
You think of her all night,
think, too, of how a comprehensively
poor education would show up
by day. And you chatter comfortably
over cocktails, about how good
that the class system is dead.