The way your skin hangs from the sides
Of that mouth, that is still feisty, oh my!
I watch you, you are chopping lamb.
The way you stand, looking crazy good in that lily white sweater.
Hands on hips, you look at me. Oh lady! Those big brown eyes!
“You have stared at me for so long, what do you want?” You ask.
“Nothing, who got you that sweater?” I ask
“I made them myself.” You say, turning away.
“What did they call you back then?” I ask
” What they call me now” You say, a smile creeping up on those lips. Damn, woman!
“Oh come on! Give something away! ” I plead
“Tell me about all the men that you..”
“There were no men, I got married at fifteen, you idiot! ” You say.
“But why! ” I lament.
“Oh, don’t you absolutely want something romantic from me ?” You chide.
“Well, you see, you are old and between those folds of your skin, I expect to find blush and powder, can I please?” I ask.
” Get out.” You say, those eyes now almost at the brink of madness with the repressed laughter.
I feel offended and condescended.
I leave, stealing a last look at the firmly placed pillar of this woman, a dying breed of women.