Neighborhood Pot Luck

The fellows speak of seasonal sport—
a topic wives cannot abort;
but they have topics of their own—
gossip with facts much overblown.
A bit of this, a bit of that
as the ladies chew the fat.
Any neighbors not invited
have their lives fully recited.

What ghastly illnesses are cured,
what wisps of conversations heard
over the fence or from another–
potential breakups or what new mother
driven too far by nightly crying,
bottle-warming, diaper drying?
Whose children can’t hit the mark?
Whose dog has that awful bark?

Who the widow had for dinner
now that she is so much thinner.
She’s looking great, they must confess.
Did you see the label on her new dress?
That new reverend, single still.
Is his girlfriend on the pill?
Or does she not need to be?
Does he just woo her reverently?

How do I know the tales they tell?
Their themes and topics told so well?
It’s because I never miss
those potlucks where they dish and diss.
It’s not their pot roast that I’m craving,
nor their nitpicking or raving.
It’s because when I missed a few,
I was the fat they chose to chew.

The prompt word today was “heard.”