They have grown old and wear,
as the poem suggests, red hats.
They are happy, all of them,
these grandmothers, but let's
not assume they have children.

Instead, I imagine that two or three
have wild trysts with one another,
their arthritic hands tight-
fisted on worn-cotton sheets.
No, these women, they'd treat
themselves to silk sheets,
so many threads, you'd lose count
of the weave of their lives.

This particular gaggle interrupted
my thoughts of Franco Spain
and the young, Christ-like girl,
(certainly, you drew that thread, too),
who escaped through fantasy,
as these old women through purple
tours of their life-long city.

02/26/2007

Posted on 02/26/2007
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