Each summer Diane Claremont and her parents
arrived from Teaneck, New Jersey
Her father would unlatch the shutters
of their two-story house next door to out little cottage
The drapes were aired, screens hung
and white lawn chairs set about the garden
Once settled in
Mr. Claremont would start on the hedges
which hit him waist high
Slowly he’d clip them straight as a ruler
along the plum line he set up.

In contrast, our hedges were pruned
by our sculptor dad
into squiggly
rollercoaster shapes

Diane’s mother hung spanking white linens
on the singular rope they used for a clothesline
Their intricate monogram brandishing the air
with an aristocratic slap.

Diane had two Ginny dolls, lots of outfits for each
and a small trunk that held the dolls’
shoes, purses, roller-skates and hats.

I had one redheaded Ginny 
her forehead marred with teeth marks
where Buddha, our family dog, had chewed her.
I kept my Ginny mostly to myself
rather than expose her to the embarrassment
of meeting Diane’s dolls.

As June moved into July
afternoons became heavy and humid
Diane liked spending her days at our house
or joining us down the beach with the other kids.

Regular as the noon whistle blew from the town hall
Mrs. Claremont would stroll down Allerton Street
calling her daughter for lunch.
She always made three syllables out of her name
Di yah yin

I loved being invited to join
for cucumber sandwiches with mayonnaise
on thin sliced white bread (crust removed)
cut into four triangles, beside a tall glass
of cold tomato (pronounced like “staccato”) juice
When I sat at her table, I felt I’d gone
to England to visit the Queen.

So come winter, long after they’d packed
and returned to New Jersey
I snuck into their house, lay on her bed
and pretended I was Diane Claremont.

I fancied one day I
could have a life of cucumber sandwiches
though decidedly
I would have no monograms
nor straight hedges.