“Go and catch a falling star” –John Donne
At thirty, she was dirty.
At fifty, she’s thrifty.
At thirty-nine she was flirty,
slyly, with old men.
At forty-seven, she made a run
at being dirty, again.
When I knew her,
she was forty-two
and the best thing about her was a sewer;
or, that was what she thought:
“I am a prize—
but, unfortunately, I’m caught.”
I acted like a teen.
I thought my kisses would wash her clean.
What did I know?
I had no understanding of women’s ages.
Their quickness. Their cruel wages.