Robert Goldstein honors me with this poem, which is a play back on a recent comment I made on his interview with Teagan Ríordáin Geneviene. Ooooh the red pumps are getting their limelight here! I hope you pop over to read the poem and visit Rob.
Felicity stood nude in front of the full-length mirror.
She didn’t look forty.
Still thick and black.
Felicity inspected her breasts: firm and free of puckers.
She stepped back from the mirror for a last quick take.
Her skin fit perfectly.
Roger watched from the bed.
Mornings were difficult for him, more so recently, with
the burning in his gut that never goes away.
He grimaced and took another swig of his coffee.
“What?” Felicity asked.
“What, what?” replied Roger.
“You made a face.”
“Don’t be coy darling. Is it me?”
“It’s never you.” Roger said. “It’s me. My stomach hurts.”
“You’re just saying that to make me feel better–tell me the
truth: you think I’m a hag!”
Roger gestured toward a chair by the bed.
“Have a seat Imelda.”
Felicity sat and smiled, “Bring me my choose.”
Roger hopped up and scurried over to the…
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