Three white women, permed white heads
Like dandelion cotton, carry on a conversation
Over lunch in a corner of the Stagecoach Grille.
After an initial discussion of the hazards
Of dying, which all three agree are worse
Than death, they switch topics, declaring
The shortcomings of the young. One woman
Seems particularly exercised about education,
Especially foreign-language immersion programs
For elementary schoolchildren. She starts in
On a complaint about her grandson indulging
In this pernicious fashion for his own kids,
Illustrating their foolishness with complaints
Against the arrogance of his chidren’s teachers
In Mandarin immersion classes. “Chinese!
Can you believe it? Chinese! They’re too young
For that. Let them learn their own thing, first,
Then later they can take another language
If that’s what they want, in high school. And now
They’ve got all these Spanish schools. You know why?
They want to make our kids learn Spanish
Because they refuse to learn English, all these
Hispanics coming into white neighborhoods.”
She goes on for a bit like that, with general agreement
That even if it’s right to feel sorry for “the Hispanics,”
“We should be helping them in their own countries,
Not letting them pour into ours.” Somehow,
This gets the three onto the topic of all the guns
Being purchased by another woman’s grandson.
She understands he needs to keep himself safe,
The way things are, but he’s wasting his money
Buying so many more guns than he needs. “I tell him,
You better not tell anyone you have all those guns,
And you better lock them all up in a safe, or someone
Will be coming for them, and maybe for you, too.”
Three heads bob assent. Something’s always coming.
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