This poem is another example of a mediocre poem screaming "boring" from a bourgeois writer that has nothing better to do with her golden life than to find minuscule faults to complain about.  Her use of the alleged transvestian actions of relatives screams of a homophobia that is not found in the better examples of poetry we see from people making true contributions to the art.

Not content to criticize her relatives - her biggest beef seems to be in their haves, not their have nots, she must condemn the very life style she lives since she knows no other.  Her use of the entry:

keep putting on the yachtsmen's caps
with exhibitionistic screech,

Shows the embarrassment over living a life she does not feel she has earned.  Much like how her poetry is receiving far too high a proportion of attention to its quality probably for the same reason.

Her incessant use of the "paper plate" term seem to be a feeble attempt to somehow normalize her boring life, but all it does is call attention to her bourgeois upbringing and lack of understanding to what real life is truly all about.

This is not an example of what poetry should be, but of what poetry should not be.  Unless you summer in Newport, and trace your lineage back to the Mayflower.