Old Goth

featured in Rumsfeld’s Sandbox

Thigh-high boots glow with kiwi.
At eighty five, she still wears black
from toe to pale neck. Sagging
bags pull beneath her eyes,
dragging them down
like the chains hooked
and dropping from her ears,
dipping, dangling, drooping, all
beagled out. Her lips puff, powdered
blue with punk, purse, flesh out
dull cheeks like biscuits in a fry pan.
Plunges forward her walker
with the gusto of a tired farmer
plowing his field at the end of the sun
and when she reaches the edge
of the churchyard, stops!
clutches her hat, her heart, freezes
stiff as the cancer stick bursting
from her calloused, cracked knuckles,
then stands like a garden gnome
till the caretaker comes to take her home.

first published in Breadcrumb Sins