Here’s a little gift instead of my usual rattling on about writing. Time to show that I do write stuff.
A BOWL FULL OF SOCKS
The Bookish Old Woman sits
every morning on the edge of my bed.
She brews my tea and butters my bread.
She’s not me. Surely, she’s not
me with her easy books and weary looks.
She’s the one who filled a glass bowl
with a dozen pairs of rolled-up socks
that no longer fit my aching feet.
The size of apples, these balled anklets
bespeak a life of excess, not
nourishment, despite their claim
to the gold-rimmed salad bowl.
And she’s the one who insists
I am nearly seventy. Silly old bat,
she knows seventy fits me
no better than that bowl of socks.