MY BIT FOR THE MATRIARCHY
the ladies
bosoms in bunches like roses
canes and colognes and the weekly perm
rattling plastic their music
delicate sitting on hips arthritic
regimens vigorous willing the digits
accruing like pennies
wheat fields in their eyes
behind spider veins
gossamer in their breath
murmurs under croak of larynx
beneath the bunions the wings of angels
pull them into improvised dances
threads so strong but unraveling
songs no one knows anymore
photographs of strangers
that seven years hence
will fall into the hands of antiquers
who will mat their sepia charms
into frames as becurled, as baroque
as they were
but never an iota
as gold
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