An eighty-buck hairdo,
an eighty-year face
The two now in conflict,
all balance erased
With age as a symbol
to search and destroy
All vanity coddled,
to plunder and toy
Bejeweled and bedangled,
she limps from the chair
Her stylist left smirking,
paid well—more than fair
These ‘blue hairs’ a staple,
her ticket to fame
The stench of the hair dye,
the price of the game
The credit card processed,
cash tip in her hand
She escorts Miss Edna
to her handicapped van
In the mirror she wonders,
as she looks at herself
“Am I just a pariah
—stealing dignity’s wealth”
(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2021)
Dew On The Lilacs
Surrogate reality,
divorced from what’s real
The news on your cable,
and movies conceal
The brands that you purchase,
the labels you wear
Convince you of something,
the ‘Emperor’ shares
While consciously vacant,
unconsciously lost
The dew on the lilacs,
impermanent frost
Like quicksand it’s calling,
disguised as a beach
Your essence is falling,
and far out of reach
As peacocks left strutting,
unable to fly
Your time ever wasted
—and waving goodbye
(Bryn Mawr College: February, 2021)