Yes, it’s lovely outside, but Our ankles, they moo, so thick, so tired and swollen. The shades, fully drawn, block out the tempting silvery light. We suffer from a herd mentality, one lows. That’s Yolanda, whose ample bosom puffs up over the top of her lavender dirndl like bread dough left on the back of a warm stove. She’s crocheting yet another table runner to sell in Macy Smith’s Home Comforts Emporium. Seated next to her is Agnes, the heavyset one who rarely smiles, who molds sugar thickened with egg whites into delicate wedding bells scarcely bigger than thimbles, decorates them with dots and scrolls of royal icing. Her darling confections have sweetened the cakey tiered dreams of many a lovely bride. Agnes, who has never been kissed, never held hands with a single boy, spinster Agnes, whose only affections were lost on a skinny boy who fell through the lake ice when they were 12 and drowned before she could ever utter a single sweet word into his curlicue ear. No no, we shall not dance, they moo, Yolanda and Agnes and shy Greta with the dark hair, whose temper remains unknown to the townsfolk outside tonight, outside dancing by the light of the moon. Greta puts down her book, walks silently to the window, peers through the shades and huffs, paws the ground. She lowers her head and gets ready to charge.
This poem appeared in the now-retired webzine Pure Francis in June 2011. Much thanks to Francis, dapper connoisseur of crème soda and caviar. It was a great run.
