I am fickle.  Let's face it.
I dated a lot of guys. I was
the girl in the red sweater.
Me and my saddle shoes.
I only wore Buster Brown
socks.

Look at me now. I am awash
In pink and sometimes yellow.
I don't like red and I don't like you!

Yesterday when we got married.
No 50 years ago.  Was it really
that long?  We pledged to love
Forever.  Now Forever is a
painful scar.  You were never
remotely interesting.

"so how did you like the play
Mrs. Lincoln?"

You say I can move on but
there is no place to go behind
the purple curtain.

Is this poem finished?
It would seem

that it is.  I will take

my bows, shed the
years and put the
memories in the

cardboard shoebox with
the painted scenery,

(please forgive the
Feminine endings.)

close the door and
see

my next adventure
coming for me.

I get pills

in the night.

I am in
San Francisco

to see Ginsberg.

I dream of
poetry and sand,
swimming
naked in cold clear
water…

and I sing in
my
sleep.


Caroline Shank