Small talk

Linda and David, second marriage,
he a college professor, she an artist.
From bridge three tenths of a mile,
to your left, private entrance.
I park under a big tree
no one to be seen
only three houses
and lots of cars.
"Hello, there!"
At last a gentleman appears
"Yes, this is the right place, come on in."
I get my bathing suit from the trunk
and the souvenir from Costa Rica.
Who in the world is this gentleman? Dave's brother?
"You're a little early, but welcome."
I get suspicious: "David and Linda?"
"Wrong party! See that estate?
turn left three times."
"Excuse me and thanks;
enjoy your party". "You too."
Again private entrance
and three houses
and lots of cars.
Linda to be seen.
I tell 'er the story. She laughs.
She explains why there are three houses
(in addition to a swimming pool, of course):
this down here is the guest hut,
the one on top of the hill her studio
where she paints
(I'll visit it later: interesting style,
colorful, quality stuff).
Dave comes out to greet me
bermudas with socks and shoes
stamped sleeveless blue shirt
white-hair, dignified Pinocchio.
He explains all the details
of the purchase of the estate.
Two acres, dunno-how-much
(more than what a college professor makes,
that for sure; consultings?).
The pool is surrounded by artists
and is full of real children and inflatable dinosaurs.
A fat lawyer, Bill, wants to go to Costa Rica
to see the "quitzil"
(he explains it's a bird, he saw it on TV).
Another guest who smokes a cigar (rara avis)
tells me that he's sold his business
and "dunno what I'll do next,
retire I guess" (in his forties)
"Costa Rica? 20 degrees above the equator.
What do you think about Reagan's
Latin American disastrous policy?"
He asks me where I learned my English
and I tell him the story,
and that I read Robert Frost
to improve my diction
one doesn't really know a foreign language
until he's capable of seducing a woman
(he is shocked;
I shouldn't use that line again).
Linda's sister is married to a photographer
who works for National Geographic Magazine
and travels constantly
taking pictures of exotic places.
A playwright who cuts in
is showing currently a piece of "recursive theater,"
no way of knowing what it's about
(I walked out during intermission,
better move on).
A female art professor
has just returned from Italy,
she's still dazzled
(I'm too, by her small bikini).
I make laps for a while
trying to avoid children,
dinosaurs and small talkers.
Hopeless. I give up,
get dressed and eat my buffet
(three hours gone by, amazing!
Glad the sun is down).
I sit on a chaise longue to finish my dessert
and entertain boredom.
All of a sudden
an attractive relatively young girl
sits next to me:
"So, you're the mysterious visitor!"
"Pardon?"
"My father told me. I live next door."
"Oh, that. How was your party?"
"Very good; we all read poems to my mother
for her birthday." "Are you all poets?"
"No, we just love each other much." "Great."
She was in Ethiopia
and is interested in developing countries
and international relations.
I tell her my own story.
We talk until it gets dark.
The friend with the cigar
comes to say goodbye
and pointedly remarks: "Good luck with your diction!"
We all get up and go home.