Here’s a little gift instead of my usual rattling on about writing. Time to show that I do write stuff.

A BOWL FULL OF SOCKS

The Bookish Old Woman sits

every morning on the edge of my bed.

She brews my tea and butters my bread.

She’s not me. Surely, she’s not

me with her easy books and weary looks.

She’s the one who filled a glass bowl

with a dozen pairs of rolled-up socks

that no longer fit my aching feet.

The size of apples, these balled anklets

bespeak a life of excess, not

nourishment, despite their claim

to the gold-rimmed salad bowl.

And she’s the one who insists

I am nearly seventy. Silly old bat,

she knows seventy fits me

no better than that bowl of socks.