From a few years ago...
She was the femme fatale,
the village bicycle of the estate.
Dark, sultry, and a bit scary
if the truth be told.
Now she's a scrawny old lady
with stray whiskers on her chin,
a smudge of moustache,
and a scurry instead of a stride.
Dark eyes which sparkle,
at odds with the lines of age.
Lips which have thinned
from pouting fullness but still smile.
My generation, who knew her reputation
but never sampled the goods,
smile back but wouldn't remind her.
It'll be a sad day when she's gone.
She died last week, and I was moved to write about her again, in 'Double Standard' over on the NaPo thread.
General Poetry - post, comment, review, critique
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