The Skokie Hill Club’s Spring Soirée began,

As valets smiled and filled each member’s hand

With “Welcome glass of lavender champagne?”

While scooching them inside before it rains.

A poker-faced host in a smoky vest,

Politely raised his nose at every guest.

Each was then directed to the check-in.

“The names are alphabetical, I reckon.”

As A through G clumped next to H through N,

Pearled women mixed with freshly shaven men.

One lady decked in floral lace-lined dress

Slipped gracefully in place at O through S.

“Oh my,” deep-sighed a stranger with a smile.

“It looks like we’ll be standing here a while.”

He eyed the lace-lined lady, cleared his throat,

Then straightened up his burgundy waistcoat.

“We’ve got some time to kill, so here’s a game:

Let’s guess which letter starts each other’s name.”

“I don’t play games,” she parlayed. “Call me O.

And stranger: that is all you get to know.”

His unplanned advances which dropped like bombs,

Lowered his chances, but not his aplomb.
“Those… lilacs are… lovely... Your dress is… awesome.”

The gal nearly cackled.  “They’re cherry blossoms.”

Before he could stumble another blunder,

The man reached his turn to take a number. 

“I’m S,” he confessed to the boy at the desk,

Who gave him his paddle, then called out “Next!”

Inside the gala, both strangers got lost: 

Glowing O mingled, while sweaty S noshed.

She mixed with the rich - small talk, politics; 

He nibbled on crisp pickled olive mint chips.

“What are your thoughts, will we re-elect Reagan?”

“Can we survive another four with that heathen?”

“He’s an actor disguised as a politician.”

“Pass me a stick of that honey-lime chicken…”

Illinois’ wealthiest, lavish and lush,

All chattered and gushed, then suddenly hushed.

The poker-faced host spoke out with a boom

Addressing all pocketbooks there in the room.

“On behalf of the club, big thanks to you all

For braving the storm and answering the call.

As you know, all proceeds we raise this eve,

Will go to Chernobyl’s Disaster Relief.”

A glum hum of care arose from the crowd,

Who clapped sympathetically (not very loud).

“All auction items will close in one hour,

Please bid from your heart; your money is power.”

S eyed a framed poster of next month’s Top Gun,

Which O said “had a lack of black actors. Not one!”

They passed paths again at Parade signed by Prince;

The look that they shared was half wink, half wince.

Then S found the item that couldn’t be beat.

A full season pair of Chicago Bulls seats.

Wiping his dribble, he scribbled his digits.

O came to the table to pay him a visit.

“Sports fan?” She asked, now bubbly and coy.

“Who doesn’t like Jordan? He’s a talented boy.”

“Love Mike,” said O, writing hers under his,

As the overhead speakers blared Prince’s “Kiss.”

“These tickets are mine,” growled the lady in pink.

“I’m off to the loo. Toodle-oo! Hold my drink.”

With seconds to go til the auction was closed,

S snuck into the last of the bidding price rows.

The seats were exquisite: courtside, front row.

Together for six months, S courted O.

This led to the playoffs, then months led to years,

Their partnership boosted them and their careers.

They learned from each other - starting with their names.

And O even changed how she feels about games.

Each Soirée, he asks her, “Will you be my guest?”

And Oprah says to Stedman “O yes, my S.”