I wear a wide brimmed feathered hat when the weather turns nice,
and I eat ice cream from a silver bowl,
as unhurried as a house cat.
I don't drive--
I stay by the side of the road, wearing my high button boots
and a sash of deep sky blue.
There are cirrus clouds that move faster than I do.
I like to watch them and give them names
like Gwendolyn, Lillian, and Marguerite.
Come calling, one of these days.
The glider on the wrap around porch has seemed poorly balanced to me;
it turns street-side by itself, as if to look for you,
when all I want to do is to listen to the bees in the honeysuckle or the catmint,
and to fan myself as I read my Emily Dickinson.
I'm old fashioned, that's the rumor.
Maybe that's why I hold my tongue and shade my eyes,
only dropping my reserve around Rose, the old calico.
She knows your ways,
because hers are the same.
So, if I'm patient and rub underneath her chin in exactly the right way,
she'll rumble and spill.
Pussy will undo you, like fingers pulling pink ribbons.
That's when I'll spring and make you mine, the old fashioned way--
believe me, little bird,
mark my words!
Concocted from a scrap of comment I made at Verse Escape, about something entirely different. Sometimes my imagination takes off without me!