She could easily be one hundred.
Dandelion wine still oozes from her
pores. She once wore daisies in
her hair.
She should just be hitting her stride
but she is haggard and bent.
The carefree years are gone.
She once had dreamy
visions of changing the world.
There were no mores to stifle her;
she banged a thousand guys.
But when you dance a
wild dance, the
piper must be paid.
Gray matted hair
hangs in her face. Lines are etched
a mile deep. Her hips need to be
replaced; she can’t walk.
Life was once a plumb to be picked.
It was a lark, free and wild.
No more!
She exists in a state-run geriatrics center.