Still wearing those french cut jeans,
Still keeping my hair perfumed and glossy
Gold; silver earrings fall against my jaw, I move in shadowed time
And live for those seconds of tension.
The young ones stand before me and sway
And to me they are as alike as cattails,
Heavy and cylindrical on their stalks.
This is my private swamp.
They have no right to be here.
Eating their cones,
They start and grin, and we begin
I feign disdain.
They forget their ice cream.
It runs in rivulets between
Their hot fingers.
I have three yards of grace.
I am pushing…whatever age…
Their faces go blank.
They shrug. Nothing is lost.
They lick up the sweet syrup,
And I go on.
I am a fragile bird flapping and flapping
Forever caught in midair between
The door and the place of peaches and vanilla
And other flavors.