by Ken Carpenter
In regal isolation,
Lips as tight as God’s schedule,
Ass to match,
Indifferent to lives she sees as mortal,
Self imposed perfection is her cross
A cross not meant for her alone.
Misery is the seed she sows,
Her Porsche the tractor
Plowing through the hard ungrateful earth
Of common man,
Breathing air she calls her own.
So safe in her cocoon
Of scented fury
She inhales the French tobacco
Through a spoiled ivory stem.
A young boy sporting chocolate cheeks
Smiles shyly, brown eyes glowing,
From his safe spot on the corner.
Her beauty is a joy to him
Like rhinestones on a cattle prod,
Delicate flowers on a bush of deadly thorns.
He stares hard
Hoping she will bless him with a smile
Or some small kindness
To kindle sunshine on a cloudy day.
“Hi lady,” he sings sweetly,
She rewards him with a vicious scowl.
He shrugs, resilient,
And sweetly sings again,
Her step falters,
And she believes him.
He skips away
Content to share what he is allowed.