It's not what it was once:spike heels, short dresses,
slow gulps of chardonnay.
Dark underthings, smooth rock.
A delicious guy in my room,
making our own weather.
No more of what came after:
quick and absent-minded everything.
It lasted as long as it could.
Now it's flannel PJ's with The New Yorker.
Online Scrabble and MSNBC.
Pandora with hot tub and no thoughts.
Once I was a Pelican, pouch filled with fish.
Now just a woman with nice friends,
but oh, a grandson to hug, woods to walk in.
Now it's nocturnal poetry.
Still worthy of life, indeed--still worth
begging for;
though at times,
all may seem like gibberish.
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