Two Women

There have not been enough women,

and the drawing room is all ready

so crowded.

There the plastic fern is toppled over,

and there the hour glass is on its side.

The Sorry! board is on the floor,

and the radio is stuck on Somewhere…

One is dark and one is light.

Both float.

Neither had any use for feet.

One is old and one is young.

They are both so very young.

Two women.

Two women.

One, her cat was hit by a car

and had to amputate its leg.

One, her dog bit my face,

and she still let it sleep in the bed.

Both shrivel when the rain comes,

but drink fully of the sunny days.

These lovely women,

who crowd my drawing room,

and knock over the antiques.

These lovely women,

who I continue to visit,

with my tea service and peppermint.

These lovely women,

dissipating by the hour,

into dusty suggestions of potential,

and knocking over what they can

on their way into oblivion.