O twin sacs of withered flesh
Blasted by autumnal frost
Wrinkled wineskins, nothing fresh
Reminders of a youth that’s lost.
Smooth-skinned bags of ripe desire
That once you were, when love was cheap,
Have sagged; and now you must retire
To some putrescent compost heap.
Let me not at the surgence of small blobs
Admit euphoria, love is not love
Which postpones fructuous issue and thus robs
Me of the fruitage I am worthy of.
O no, the season has a fixèd mark,
August would have been the time to ballyhoo,
But you are not even in the ball park,
With your greenish pods, puny and too few.
Love suffers long—too long. Do not ignore
A rankled hausfrau’s loss of faith, young friend.
Pinchfist puttings-out got you the chop, before.
Indifferency will bring a bloody end.
If this be smallness where I should be big,
I never cared, nor ever gave a fig.
I must seriously be the most self-loathing person in Idaho. Took the family to the mall after dinner because we were out of yogurt culture. That’s right, we drove to the mall to buy us some culture. I proposed that dessert should be a bonbon per person from See’s Candy. This was met with wide approval.
In the Felliniesque freak show that is our mall, I recognize that my children draw extra attention to themselves for their pure outsider-dom. Bella was wearing a long-sleeved dress with rubber boots that are now so small they make her limp. Oh, and it was 96 degrees in the shade. Callie “covered” herself in scraps of sluttiness derived from the latest bag left on our front door step by I really don’t know whom. The waistband of William’s track pants was hoisted to its usual position, two inches south of his nipples.
But then I noticed his ear:
It somehow escaped my attention that his left ear was either stung or bitten yesterday. He can’t remember the exact details. But the effect is horrific. It looks like a fistful of flesh-colored playdough, three times larger than normal and (how is this even possible?) quite a bit lower on his head.
Last week of summer, I am very much over you.