new widow
maybe fifty to sixty
speaks to me
the lines on her papery skin
folding delicately
around every expression
careful illustrations for the twists
and tones of her story
nearly done
until she suddenly
implores of me
her age
demanding
that i guess
then interjecting
that No One
Ever
Guesses
Over
Forty.
mid-to-late thirties
perhaps
she hears the most
she sweated herself down to zero
percent body fat
wears the most fashionable clothes
and spends a fortune on her hair
but the men around here
only want a girl who's
twenty-two
she says
but those aren't really men
anyway
she says
and i wonder
who's making those men?
our boys
surely
we must have
some say
in it
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