My mother taught me good etiquette
Our house, piled high with used books
and used dishes and ketchup-stained paper plates
in frayed straw paper-plate holders,
smelled of cigarette smoke and cat pee.
We sat on a Tom-sprayed couch
with crumbs down the cushions,
scatching our flea-bitten calves
and our flea-ridden kittens under their chins.
We read Emily Post and Miss Manners;
We knew everything there was to know about
what you can and can’t do with an American flag;
We knew how to address a priest or a Pope or a president;
We knew how to have an audience with the Queen.
When I answered the phone, if I could find it
under the dirty clothes pile,
and they asked for me,
I said “this is she.”
I still say that.
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