Things
she wishes she could tell,
So
you understand at least a fourth of her
But
she can’t say really, she can’t just because
because
you aren’t really made for that.
You
aren’t made of elastic and brim-wire
Neither
are you made of candy and iron inside out like herself.
Rather
you’re the one that is made, heart in and heart out of rust-free
aluminum, the kind that makes almost endless points of roofing on the
next-door neighbor’s head.
You
don’t bend, recoil or scratch. At least until you are cut.
You
restrict, or better yet you’re made to sit and form
the
so-called beauty you think you’re made for.
You
pose like an art so expensive, the zeros that end it’s price tag
alone
Is
enough to draw a Replica of that very same art.
You
say you stand for hard work, diligence and home.
When
in reality you stand for happiness, without the hard work put in.
You
prefer to gain, stand tall and accept all acknowledgment,
Yet
fists go high to heaven in order not to feel the pain that gain’s
cousin brings.
But
what on earth do I know?
Really,
I’m just a young woman,
with
my panty hoes too high for comfort,
and
my girdle too tight for circulation, watching and noticing,
that
these essentials of hers are blind spots for you.
~~
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Also in This Issue
Short Stories
Poetry
