Waxed Pates

there is a contemplation,
she has terrific views from here,
men with waxed bald pates,
buffed to the extreme shine.

People hang nets to keep birds out,
she throws an occasional rug
and beats it the old fashioned way,
so that clouds of dust rise
then sprinkle their shining motes,
she dotes up on her cat.

Sometimes, she takes steps
but it always the same,
wondering she meets wanderers,
they speak and presume too much,
she smiles and considers
what part of no actually means no.

There are overstuffed teddy bears
and lead soldiers, arid and parched for time,
men in hair shirts, starched collars
and a randy vicar, pressed into white
he flows, and thinks a saintly outlook
will make him just that closer to God.

Cynical? No, she peruses scenes and amuses,
her constitutional constitues a small amount
of visceral ponderment, she is benign
Life has smote a few blows,
she throws a shrug and waltzes
in her fancy black boots,
to oversee the overwhelming view
of waxed to perfection bald pates.



Poetry by Elle The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 484 times
Written on 2013-02-05 at 20:31

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There is a nice sense of omniscience about this. It kind of reminds me (in a very roundabout way) of a lone cowboy riding into town, surveying everything, taking it all in, weighing, judging, surmising, being careful. I like this a lot.
2013-02-06