Francine - harvest
I Blame the Dutch mpoetess
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Poetry, then. Since that seems to be the Thing.

quicklikeabunny edit, because I realized I've posted t'other one before.


That One's Husband

He wears his necktie crooked, like his smile,
While she will not set foot outside the house
Without each hair in its pin-determined place,
Each crumb banished from lip and collar,
Each nylon stocking running smooth
From pointed shoes to firmly gartered tops.
But when they are alone in the darkened house
She will put on the Beiderbecke records
And shimmy like a dance-hall queen
Until the pins shake loose in a silver staccato hail
And her hair comes falling down onto her shoulders,
Just to make him smile.

C. 1998

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2004-10-16 08:19 am (UTC) (Link)

Is that yours? That's just beautiful.


2004-10-17 11:49 am (UTC) (Link)

Thank you! Yes, it's mine, from several years ago when I was actually writing poetry at the rate of more than, er. One every several years. It's a completely invented story about my grandparents, though the photo is real. :)