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Thighs thwapping beneath her multi-colored mu-mu
Flo barrels into the dining room behind her walker,
commandeers her place – the purple satin chair –
at the head of the popular ladies’ table.

Even the deaf diners can hear her piercing demands,
her piped pronouncements regarding the food, the servers,
the ladies themselves, and their exquisite Monday
morning manicures, their white, coiffed hair.

She buzzes with intensity, rustles her ass back
and forth across the seat to smooth her rumpled
underwear. She guzzles her Royal yellow Jell-O
with the gusto of a nubile teen, eyeing the new

men wheeling in. She snaps out verdicts – one to ten –
while the ladies nod and wipe their specs to get
an unobstructed view since the men are so few and far
between on this lolling blue hill in the kingdom of Flo.