Wednesday, August 7, 1996

She sips at morning tea
She dresses up in fines
She goes out once a month, when
She customarily dines

She dines in style at Caesar’s
She swims to beat the heat
She lounges at the club-side
She walks the Brigade Beat

She wears expensive dresses
She looks so out of place
She’s made up to be graceful, but
She beats hell out of grace

She moves the social circles
She digs the latest groove
She hums to Carly Simon
She thinks it doth behoove

She’s asked what, why, and whither
She leads a digital life
She answers yes, no, maybe
She is a digital wife

She’s happy he is happy
She’s sad that she is sad
She knows if she could shoot her shit
She feels she would be glad

She sits in her arena
She tugs at greying hair
She looks for clues in the mirror
She sees she is not there

She reaches for the kitten
She traipses up the stairs
She sees through all the ugly
She knows that fair is fair

She scrawls and draws on paper
She writes her words in tongues
She draws her breath in spasms
She has problem with her lungs

She forgets her own phone numbers
She’s a forgetful dame
She is thankful mercifully
She does not forget her name

She calls up the phone number
She was given by a friend
She is exasperated
She hangs on till the end

She rings up thirty times
She waits for thirty rings
She manages to convey
She’s not happy with the things

She is frantic when I’m tardy
She is worried when I’m late
She rides a roller coaster
She is in a nervous state

She drives a little crazy
She drives a little car
She’s lucky, (so are others)
She doesn’t drive too far

She fights with her beloved
She fights with the other too
She sometimes fights with both of them
She doesn’t know who is who

She deals with different mothers
She faces different strife
She thinks indifference will make
She says, difference to her life

She cooks, she says, she’s learned to
She hates to be compared
She’s pitched against such standards
She says, that beg to be dared

She asks for my assistance
She wants me to pull along
She does not realize that
She herself is strong

She has a certain something
She’s good at things like that
She is a born survivor
She is like an alley cat

She eats at corner cafés
She drinks her tea from a plate
She talks to wayward children
She calls a stranger “mate”

She chases chubby piglets
She touches gnarly trees
She proclaims them to be Ficus
She whistles like the bees

She sweats and stains her apron
She marks her pants with tint
She thinks it is ironic that
She gives a sexual hint

She is blessed, she is gifted
She is twangy, she is thing!
She is skinny, she is loaded
She is wiry, she can sing

She’s the joy of my giving
She’s the reason of my life
She laughs when I thank our stars that
She is not my wife