Pot-bellied, am I: misshapen by age and gravity – more rot than plump ripe pear – still, a vessel for love – grandmotherly vase.
Grateful for the wilder times, days when daring ruled – amassed fodder for stories, harmless antics eliciting laughter – ever more sweet as body fails,
Words are leaves, poignantly bold when sprouted, destined to wither lose their hold – thank goodness our love is a trunk, solidly rooted, steadfast –
In corners, I scrounge – resilience fading; hope, it seems, is sleeping. Living a quarter life, even ascents depressed; dubious that alternatives are worthwhile. Walls
Do fiddle together, they say, as if man lust were in want when his smooth, cool music fingers my girly drives are I ugly –
Born brilliant, and good looking, he had me dancing, fevered – red cat woman, I am porcelain, prisoner, cup fishing, long to explore dark words