the ladies at cards, unawares

cocky cyclops covet the crumbs of stolen tarts,
single visioned chomps of life without bridge mix.
the hardwood platters do not matter: mayonnaise
forms suspicious lumps on sliced breast of turkey.

the ladies will now begin to beg for food:
we will starve them until Edna declares trump-
the table of cards may shimmy slightly,
rigid gray hairs vitally dance in uniform cadence.

it is the cascade of non-original canapes
that titters them into mustard euphoria
and makes them wet their flowered shifts.
the level of saturation, as it were, depends.