>
all these ex-husbands
of mine, instead of dogging me
like old tattoos, distorted
by wrinkles, faded & stretched by obscene
middle-age, humiliating me with my
unfortunate past lapses in taste.
Why do friends keep me posted:
the one who wouldn’t give me a baby
has adopted two; the one who lied & cheated
for years publishes screeds on Virtue
online; the one who told me I ceased to exist
the moment he walked out of the room
charges 500 an hour for Tarot therapy in the Village.
I walked out of that room seventeen
years ago: why does he still exist?
The one who didn’t want the kid
fights for custody, the millionaire
who repossessed my car pleads poverty.
Why does he have to call and poison
my exquisite hours? Why can’t he keep his lousy
karma to himself? Why doesn’t he drive
into a tree the way he threatened,
à la Jackson Pollock, only—please God—
with no innocent floozies in the car.
Oooooo wicked.
Thank you!
This gave me goosebumps. The balance between wry humor and fierce anger is really stunning.
Wow, thanks, Laura. Or could I call you Bogie?
The words spoke of the fine line one treads between memories that refuse to leave us and the events that make newer ones. Exceptional and mesmerizing.
Too Bad!! Women like you give us respectable feminists a bad name. I am not even sure if this qualifies as poetry; it’s more like prose with lame metaphors.
Q. You state, “the millionaire
who repossessed my car pleads poverty.”
How can someone repossess a car that belongs to someone else?
Maybe all these me that you have married are sick of giving you handouts. Maybe you are the wretched, greedy one.
I feel sorry for your child. His mother is clearly a raging lunatic.
look! hate male…er….mail. Barbara, you’ve now arrived, as you’re not TRULY a writer until someone is MOVED to go out in public and declare you a charlatan.
but before I duck back out, may I ask Mina….what does feminism have to do with this?
Thanks, Dwoz.
While I do not agree with many of Mina Olen’s comments, I do think one is accurate. Unfortunately, this is not poetry.
Of course it isn’t poetry!
Poetry always has rhymes on the end of each line.
That’s how you know it’s poetry, silly goose!
🙂
And I thought I was being funny.