She was always wary of sundown aftermaths,
never leaving home past dark
unless her barrel-chested husband felt
like taking a leisurely stroll
through the wooded park which bordered
the childless two-storeyed mansion
that He owned
She would have preferred,
on these dreaded evenings,
to have been born poor, dirt poor,
destitute even, without a single
sutth-larha to her name, born of
a daddy up to his ears in debt to
mustachioed, huqqah-puffing landlords,
and a mummy whose eyes reflected
no light at all, than to be trailing a mate
who measured happiness
with a yardstick made of pure gold
(minos - february 2007)
5 comments:
youre response to material girl?
:)
perhaps.
more probably a reaction to having lived in this desert paradise for more than fifteen years and a day.
i can remember (though it might be my imagination playing trix on me) when it was actually considered sacrilegious to face the direction of fort knox while praying.
whoulda believe that today.
why ever would she not be happy?
so much to do, when you can have a yardstick made of pure gold. :)
delightful poem :)
thank you mystic.
and i absolutely *know* you're not being rude when you say "so much to do..."
:)
hmm.. how would that sound rude? :)
and there, i guess, is the confirmation that i have absolutely no clue!
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