Two poems last night, one today, second chapter of a story I wrote years ago. The writing frenzy is growing worse. Danger, Will Robinson. Danger.
Taking Turns
I wonder as I watch them coming into Sykes,
our local reincarnation of an old fashioned general store--
the old farmer with the bowed back
perpetually looking at the floor,
the widow who can only walk
with her feet turned out at angles
like flippers.
When did they decide it was time to be old?
Did they wake up one morning
and say, "Today I will stop trying
to straighten my back
or walk like other people?
From now on I will shuffle my feet
or wear checks and stripes together
or stop fixing my hair"?
Will I do that?
How will I know when it is my turn?
I like them all,
the ladies with pink, penciled on eyebrows
the men wearing belts with suspenders,
both in sweaters on 90 degree days.
But I wonder who will smile indulgently at me
when I come in wearing a pearl necklace
over a sweatshirt?
Will they wonder
like me
when it will be their turn?
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