North of Scarsdale

A hot-eyed Hunter girl, intense and swarthy,
Ruth was the terror of the PTA.
Cut down to size like sitting ducks, we’d say
She could have drawn the blood of Mary McCarthy.
We’d hoped to cope by being tactful, gentle,
But proved less alien corn than all-out corny:
Bristling with bangs and brows, Cassandrish, thorny,
She slashed to bits the smug or sentimental.

Undone by zeal, at her Billie’s birthday party,
She greeted the small fry unconditionally nude.
We knew, at last, she wasn’t just odd, or lewd,
Or hard-core liberal, or crafty-arty;
And sure enough, she fevered, sickened, died. . .
We ache with sympathy for her boys and Larry.
He is a different substance: dreamy-eyed,
A Harvard graduate, not especially hairy.

She baffled him, too . . . we coax him back to life.
We gather him up like a clucking community hen.
We’re vowed to find him a sensitive, suitable wife,
And the PTA is on its feet again.