This poem was originally published in the August 7 & 14, 1989 issue of The New Republic.
This time round, they didn't seem so comic.
Mama is foolish, dim or dead. Papa's
a sort of genial, pampered lunatic.
No one thinks of anything but class.
Talk about rural idiocy! Imagine
a life of teas with Mrs. and Miss Bates,
of fancywork and Mr. Elton's sermons!
No wonder lively girls get into states—
no school! no friends! A man might dash to town
just to have his hair cut in the fashion
while she can't walk five miles on her own.
Past twenty, she conceives a modest crush on
some local stuffed shirt in a riding cloak
who's twice her age and maybe half as bright.
At least he's got some land and gets a joke—
but will her jokes survive the wedding night?
The happy end ends all. Beneath the blotter
the author slides her page, and shakes her head,
and goes to supper—Sunday's joint warmed over,
followed by whist, and family prayers, and bed.