“Shameful, clumsy cow!”
An utter sob.
An utter slob.
Fat and old.
Out for me,
Working hard for me.
In small rooms
What does anyone think when the sun dials around
And the moon rises up over the earth like a child’s toy?
Riding on a bus, or sitting at the hearth,
Are the thoughts the same?
Are they all of passing time and melancholy?
Some of chance
And some of anticipation.
Some of love and some of relief while tucking in babies.
Most of desire and lust:
I distract myself from a girl’s dreams of ponies and wedding days,
Of spoon feeding beautiful babies,
Of houses, and husbands, and meetings.
The magic of fairies and the romance of kings and princesses.
Oh, I dare not to think too long on my freckled-faced ambitions,
Lest I come face to face with a woman
Aged and not interested in make-up or sleepovers.
No longer a woman preoccupied with children’s bedtime stories
And good tasting, but economic, meals to fill her husband’s hunger.
In the dark of the night,
When all the switches are flipped to off
And I make my stiff-legged way up the stairs –
Aching back and clubbed feet like hams pounding the stairs,
I catch a glimpse of myself in the window
And see where I am headed regardless of bus or hearthstone.