He, second left, back row, racquet in hand
She in the foreground, leg aloft in the midst of a can-can

She, bee-hived, by their white beetle
He stands, suave, a foot on the fender

He, with wind-swept hair, forlorn in England
Back here, she was knitting irritably, afraid

Of interlopers, like the plaited one with a sweet
Air, hidden in a drawer; she sent him packages of guilt

A bobbed child set in a round-backed chair
Me in front of orchids that hardly bloomed