You know, I watch her pass,
Another year gasping, choking,
Swollen and bloated in death.
Eventually, becoming a useless thing,
Her piquant posture lost luster,
Now a bag-lady beggar on the street.
A year, dancing across life’s stage,
High kicks to her coming morbidity,
A has been chorus girl with no tutu.
Resolutely, I ponder her lost youth,
Preparing her fish-net hose lined grave,
I wonder what I ever saw in her.
©2013, Donald Harbour