bobbing, nodding in
the little breeze
they smooth their
skirts around their knees,
brown and shriveled
from too much sun.
Dawdling like a cozy
bunch
of old gals that can
spare the time
for schmoozing,
dallying in their prime,
these are the ladies
who come to lunch.
Bosoms rolling, they
raise their glasses
and hail the fullness
of time, while preening
and gossiping,
whispering, leaning
closer in as the rush
hour passes
and when they turn
their faces up
into the sky, it
isn’t blue
but orange, and their
time is through
so each one empties
out her cup.
Now, what to do with
the rotting clods
that grow behind the
fence you needed
to hide the dead
stuff when you weeded
to make the garden
yours (not God's)
for posies hybridized
by men
who love deep folds
and private places
petals make in empty
spaces
once each spring,
then not again
until the next?
Each old
broad
has won that game,
shedding bloom
to make dirt-roots
that matter in June.
(That, Sir, is the
work of God.)
No comments:
Post a Comment