Glue, she mutters, massive locks
of blonde hair, piled atop her head
mysteriously held in place despite
the breeziness of her top-down sports.
Not even the wind can undo her,
I marvel at the glint of gold
at her neck, the sparkle of a rock
as she waves, free-wheeling by
What does this woman know that
I don’t; how has she kept it all
together – the years refusing to
drag her down, always riding high?
Glue, echoes the young mother,
from the doorway of her two-story
mansion, children running amuck,
her life, like her bright red sweater
ostentatious, showy – no amount
of material possessions, no career
or besotted husband can blot out
the turmoil churning within.
Glue? I question the dubious advice;
caught off guard by the bluntness,
unprepared to accept guidance
from those I’ve judged so harshly.
What can these women, so far
removed my disabled existence,
know of my plight, understand
about my needs – my failings?
Glue, mumbles a forlorn figure
once a mighty director, a mentor
a man who saved me from myself
his shadow self weak and distraught
Down and out, proclaims the mother,
shaking her head in disapproval,
Sold out, quips the blonde snapping
her bejeweled fingers; I am stunned
had not anticipated such a source
of strength to have fallen so deeply –
disillusioned are we both, broken
by heartlessness, lost in apathy.
Glue, I’ll run it by my doctor, maybe
there is something to it – can’t be
worse than the molasses coursing
through my veins – is adhesive
enough to bond together fragments
cease the rattling of this mind –
give me the backbone to recognize
myself in all and apply forgiveness?
(Ever in pursuit of new understanding of my dreams, this poem is a companion to the change of perspective piece written on One Woman’s Quest II.)
One Woman's Quest 