Wednesday, February 2, 2011

On Being Six

Image borrowed from Yahoo

On Being Six

I 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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