Dreaming of Old Age

She reads almost exclusively women

with the occasional exception

of those aged well beyond their ripeness (dead)

with the fervent hope of improving the poetry

of her body. Bodies, she says, are

“no more, no less than the words we take into ourselves.”

Seated back straight, knees trapped between chest and desk

(she does love her partial rhymes)

unconsciously fetal,

she pulls sustenance from all corners of the virtual globe.

Her dream of dreams is to live to an unforgivable age

to shake hands with Andromeda and spin,

spin until all her blinking worlds have been flung from the house into the chaos

of an empty street.

She wonders what the hell is taking that girl so long. (Time is always sometimes slow)

Half-remembered upon waking, the sunlight of memory warms her arms;

oh yes,

she was Methuselah in a previous life.

His beard perhaps, or the wafty hairs surrounding a bald cap

(there’s no way he wasn’t at least partially bald)

The point is, she was a follicle

thousand of follicles,

itched and scratched by the man himself and God knows who else.

She rises from the sheets confused, stumbling

to the fridge for hot chocolate and cold pizza

feeling thin as a plastic bag and older than the moon.

 

 

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