Twenty-First Century Cattle Call

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I was an Avon lady, in my very early days.
A diehard fan of the Bard that summer,
I fancied myself a Stratford woman.
Today? Well today, here I am.

Lounging in the sun, thirsty and hot
my blue rays turn them green
as I grab a dr. pepper,
antidote to drowsiness.

Stride-rite? But I lean left,
and still seek neverland.
I’ll choose to fly by Wendy’s
every time.

Kate spade dares my counter clubs
and I grimace as victoria’s secret
busts out everywhere.
Target? Not on my back.

The grammatically incorrect hermes
competes with christian dior.
Amen I say to that,
eyes wide shut.

I feel your pain,
branding seared into our hides.

Cul de Sac Season

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She sits on a faded brocade chair
brown age spots and blue veins
eyes clouded by cataracts
lace curtain pulled back.
Her house is on a cul de sac,
last one on the end curve.

Yard swings, long quiet
moved wistfully in summer winds
now shrouded in new-fallen snow.
Nearby holiday displays
draw a slow parade of cars
like moths drawn to light.

Cold drive-by strangers
slip past the lone dark house.
Her solitary reading lamp
turned off at seven
A Christmas Carol splayed open
on the wood planked floor.

Cattails

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Tall brown spikes on green stalks.
Herd plants, unlike their namesake
stand together, day after day.

Under hot sun, wind and occasional hail
bake into velvet texture
slowly stretch until they burst.

Brown-flecked white fluff stands on end
like the cat, suddenly shocked
sensing threat nearby.

A thresher looms its blades
and they scatter in the wind
seeding their next generation.

Across the Street

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Consumed by work
pinstripe suit sits hunched
fingers click print, delete
legs walk then fold
break time
crystal vase of carnations
on white draped table
lips sip wine, talk at and smile
phone alarm chimes
legs cross the avenue
and return to work.

Consumed with work
hard hats firmly planted
hands pound, lug, drill
bodies climb, squat, and reach
break time
blue lunch bucket snaps shut
legs dangle from ibeam ledge
mouth gulps thermos coffee
foreman shouts warning
legs stand tall
and return to work.

Unexpected

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Seven squares sit empty
in front of the number circled in red,
preceded by months of exes. Solid black lines
crossed at the exact middle point.
Belly so big, feet are questionable.
End of season sweet corn devoured,
dripped butter solidified on plate’s edge.
Slab of apple pie about to be devoured.
Fork stops. I stop. Puzzled. Wet.
Not like a dam’s breech,
more like the trickle of a creek.
Not exactly by the book.
Wheels spin, gravel crunches,
rocks spray at mewling farm cats.
Roads rush by.
Do you feel the earth calling you,
my moans stalling you?
Years later, we wait impatiently,
while you adjust lipstick, stalling.
This time, we’re ready.
But you’re not.