Tuesday, April 2, 2013

"No Purple, Please," Mary Alice Henkel

By: Mary Alice Henkel

When I am an old woman.
I may not choose to wear purple
Or learn to spit.
I will, instead, learn to clutter.
I plan to drop my coat on the nearest chair,
And leave it.
Along with last week’s unfolded laundry.
I will find joy in stacking last week’s (and months) daily press
And unopened junk mail
Left hither and yon on top of, and in boxes and half opened drawers.
I will continue my clutter in the kitchen.
Yesterday’s dishes will be soaking in the sink
With an array of well stained coffee mugs.
I will bask in my clutter.
And will hire someone to tidy up once a week or so.
When I am an old woman.
I will sit enthroned upon an antique chair,
At a card table used for a make-shift desk.
In the midst of the clutter.
I will take no notice of the one who cleans for me.
And I will choose to ignore her bemused smile.
I will detach myself from hearing aids.
And will sit undisturbed by the cleaning which goes on around me.
I will calmly indulge in the lost art of letter writing.
And who knows? In the future I may even learn to spit. 

(2013 Poetry Contest 2nd Honorable Mention, Lucas County)

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