The Sharing

by Ken Carpenter

 

                                                               In regal isolation,

Lips as tight as God’s schedule,

Ass to match,

Indifferent to lives she sees as mortal,

She struts.

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,

Those wretches,

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,

“Ugly bitch.”

Her step falters,

Stunned,

And she believes him.

He skips away

Content to share what he is allowed.

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