The Girls Next Door

Daisy, flutters from shoulder to shoulder,
a miniature referee.

Six years old, I am visiting the "girls next door," Mae and Bess,
gray- haired, bespectacled eighty year olds.

In their kitchen, the warmth of hugs, chocolate milk, oatmeal cookies.

Then as we settle - arguments-

that whirl around and around the room like garish feathers.

Anything, a source for disagreement,
weather, news, neighbors.

Daisy's work begins, a parakeet
with the mission of a dove at a table

filled with bickering and cookie crumbs.
I sit entranced by the commotion,

lulled by the rhythm of voices that nurse conflict
like the lips that are nursing the dry martinis

that fill their glasses, listen
to the frenzied warble

of a small yellow and green pacifist,
who tries again and again

to whistle down peace.