by Claire Scott
Who is the greatest grandpapa of all he boomed,
shaking the silver and Wedgewood china
on the mahogany table.
Irish maids in starched uniforms ghosted by
passing poached salmon with scalloped potatoes.
My grandmother stared out at the gazebo
filled with terra cotta pots of pink and white orchids.
My face flamed. You I mumbled, head down, eyes fixed
on my felt skirt, the French poodle with its rhinestone eye.
He flipped me a quarter and grinned. Then turned
back to his fish and his fourth glass of wine.
Talked about fox hunting next Sunday,
hoped the weather would be good.
I put the quarter in my pocket.
Sold for twenty-five cents.