In an effort to keep eking out a poem day, here's another one. I'm a few days behind, but I'll catch up--don't you worry your pretty little head about that!
I read a newspaper article today about a woman who was so upset about all the scary financial news, she lost twelve pounds, started having anxiety attacks, and had to go to therapy. (If only all my copious general-subject worrying led to dramatic weight loss. No such luck, though). The weird thing is, she hadn't even so much as lost her job! Her and her husband were gainfully employed, had a house, and savings in the bank. I think the Screeching Harpies of Doom really need to take it down a notch--now, they're just running amok terrifying people free-form, like those flying monkeys in the Wizard of Oz. I had little rebellion fantasies all day about quitting my job and spending my savings on a ruby-encrusted hat. I mean, I would never do that, but I would like to be that audacious, just to see if the gods would strike me down dead where I stood for my hubris. Or chutzpah. Or whichever word would best apply to that sort of behavior.
Then again, if the gods did strike me down dead, that would be a huge waste of an expensive hat.
When your heart's given out,
for gods sake, just shop.
To lavish yourself
with a stand-in for love
is an act of love.
The thing that hexes your eyes
must be swaddled
and held to your chest like a newborn
or your sluggard heart
stays slumped in it's carapace,
with nothing to lure it upright.
Oh, for when Cost doesn't count!
For when you're granted, or take,
the whole damn wish-list, down to
truffles and twelve-dollar wine.
Throw on that leopard skirt and let's go.
We have strutting to do,
paper to fritter
away like loose green birds.