Image borrowed from YahooI watch her tip across
the street on morning toes;
her heels always miss the cracks
between the steps.
I hide in picture-window drapes
from her fish-eye, black
hair in uniform shape,
jacket loose, her arms free
of sleeves and children.
I skate soft-sock
back to bed, pull up the lone
sheet around my face,
feel no hostile
vibrations, but hate
her all the same.
“It’s that mustache of hers”,
I say out loud to the ceiling.
Tess Kincaid
January 2011
Posted over on her site Willow Manor
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