Elizabeth High

A Modern Woman

Thick ankled women gather around the sandbox
blathering on about cellulite while their
be-spittled babies, fat with self importance,
crawl, gnawing on the same toys,
spreading the germ d’jour.

I sit back, neither here nor there.
It appears they all talk without listening
and not once do I hear mention of
any current event.

The one in yellow is fat.
The one with polka dots is sleepy,
exhausted by tending to her children.
Apparently the husbands are worse than babies.
Not a happy comment among them.

A black haired baby brains the bald one with
a plastic bucket and the bald one howls.
The women briefly stop talking for a bit.
Knowing glances and apologies are passed around
like communion wafers.
The endless talk resumes.

The sun begins its journey behind the earth
and the women gather their brightly embroidered
overstuffed bags on which conniving bunnies
and frightening elephants cavort.
One of the mothers gathers the spit sodden snack wrappers
and empty juice boxes placing them in the trash.

The women head off reminding me of a herd of cows.
They return home to prepare dinner or maybe laundry,
waiting for daddy to arrive home from work
so they can dote over baby’s latest trick.

I sit on my bench until it is completely dark,
thinking about their spacious, bright yellow,
unorganized and well-equipped kitchens.
Worried about being alone in the dark, I gather my new black purse,
the black purse that goes so well with
the black pointy-toed shoes that hurt my feet.

Halfway to my small apartment, I take off the shoes and carry them.
I think of the contents of my refrigerator.
There must be wine and cheese

Elizabeth High is an aspiring, yet, unpublished writer of fiction. She writes poetry because it keeps her from going on a rampage, is much cheaper than lithium, and has fewer side effects. Elizabeth loves the dark side and thrives off cosmic irony and rejection. She lives on a secluded mountain with her many observations and delusions.