October 2024
Robert Wexelblatt
robertwexelblatt@gmail.com
robertwexelblatt@gmail.com
Author's Note: I’ve written a number of verses about the wealthy, selfish, brittle, soignée, promiscuous, unhappy Mrs. Oleander. Earlier poems look in on her as an individual at various stages of her life, but Mrs. O. is also a type. The pieces below are stretched-out epigrams about two of her favorite avocations.
Mrs. Oleander’s Lovers
At fifteen, lots of boys ogled her bust
and butt, eyes smeared with adolescent lust.
Empowered by their infatuation,
she cherished her sketchy reputation.
In college, she joined a sorority
where sex was the top priority.
The sisters tacked condoms to their door.
All did well, but she earned the highest score.
Mr. O. gave her an American
Express card, two weeks at a Sheraton,
her white Mercedes, Lagerfeld dresses,
a mansion, a pool—but few caresses.
She ran through men as she ran through money,
coupling like some concupiscent bunny.
Casual affairs gave her something to do.
After a month, she’d need somebody new.
There was just one she found hard to forget,
but the longing soon waned, then the regret.
Mrs. Oleander Goes Shopping
She looks, she buys,
grabs passing highs
from shelves, off racks,
new tops, fresh slacks,
lipstick, perfume,
sweet hat, posh phone.
Her closet’s full of costly things.
She has a taste for scarves and rings.
A Meissen nymph, a Luxeire blouse
don’t make a home, just gild the house.
Substituting footgear for needs
breeds an avid thirst that feeds
on itself, unslaked by stuff.
Blahnik and Prada aren’t enough.
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