of fifty-five. And I'm still alive! I’ll be masked out
to death! Have to cover my breath as
I have my hair dyed. Have to do the same
entering the restaurant chain. But they can’t

confine me as I dine in gleam over a steamed
lobster and oysters with my family. If my
birthday fell a couple of weeks past I’d not have
this choice. So, progress has kept

tradition. This'll be surreal
until the cocktail kicks in. And the meal
of shellfish has saturated my belly. I’ll roll
out, legs of jelly in a black mask,

that doesn’t match my pastel, floral blue
dress. But I’m not here to impress –
just stuff my fat face.