by Faye Hickman Wren

            O O O O 

            (it's not what you're thinking)

            Thatís some Shakespearean rag

            Always elegant

            So  pleasingly self-evident


            And it ainít mine. 

            To tell you the truth

            I just canít find those kinds of words

            Canít make sentences flow that way 

            And I donít put my thoughts together well enough
            (so I have been told often enough)

            I let my heart get ahead of my thinking, my actions,
             I guess youíd have to say 

            I feel the waters break

            A warm gush gathering around my heels and spilling over

            step-ins plastered to my thighs

            I slosh passed reception and onto the elevator

            Two nurses-dressed-as-nuns 

            and a dead -beat father-of-a-husband
            under my wing


            But that was  late December,
            Maybe forty very odd years ago,


            Those times 
            I think I still knew a little somethin'
             and all my children

Poetry(e)motion by Faye Hickman Wren

© Copyright 2001. All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be duplicated or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.

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