And so she starts an endless
journey through faces
tanned, handsome, pocked,
wrinkled, receding hair lines
middle aged pony tails, and
beards shaved up into crows feet
that blossom into moles never
noticed before. Suddenly it seems
the skin droops together on all
the little places of the jaw.
Pretending not to know, she
joins the middle aged crones
covered up with hair color
teeth caps and vitamin E.
She looks past drooping muscles
to find what hurts him.
Floating in a piece of the past,
it threatens to capsize whatever
relationship there night be.
She hates being alone.--too
young, too old, too thin, not
enough. A drink or two, reveals
more than age at singles dances.
Time and pride sacrificed at
the ego middle-plex.
The anger comes, depression
leaves, apathy around the corner.
Like waves they drift by and she
remembers what she was told,
“There is a lot of weird ones out
there.” Not soon enough she
discovers being alone, the
pentateuch for divorcees;
a nice dinner, jacuzzi to herself
with candles, three o'clock AM
with a book. And the spirit free,
with honor, answers the telephone.
Copyright © Cara 1994