and he had waltzed and had foxtrotted her from kitchen to parlor all week
and she would meet a boy at the gym door a boy who would shuffle through his deal with her father
for she was ugly
Monday she would hear what he said about
her would rush her mother's mirror into her room where
she could pluck and pry at her features unseen
she was twelve and terrified frightened already by loneliness
by
sixteen she had supplanted fear with determination and a
grudging acceptance of her fate and face
but still, she was lonely....
...he
was eighteen had
stopped his mind at sixteen, where booze and girls are guzzled together in
the
back seats of chilly sedans
she even furnished the car
(this one time that was to be her only) and he sat beside her with his muscatel
pointing it
at her (a buffer between himself and the ugliness)
she found the oil well then rushed at him flaying her pride
with his drunkenness
she's old now. her gray hair has itself yellowed with age
she shows no grief.
a resignation perhaps that a life so lonely
should last so long
but no grief
her little shop flaunts itself at the town
(yarn,
knick-knacks, porcelain pans)
