Showed up at a gala
with a pocketbook of bones,
with a checkbook of birch bark.
No valet parking for my mortar and pestle? No,
my dress of twigs is VERY MUCH black tie!
What do you mean, too old for your fucking gala?
So that did not go well. Though ash and soot
make excellent skin poultice. Please
don’t mention the flash flood and the decorative explosion
unless you insist.
At a gallery opening. My dress of twigs
is considered avant–garde! But what did you say
about the skull necklace? “Goth
is so last year” — how OLD are you, again,
delicious child?
Did not need much roasting.
Those of you who think grandma is only joking
are probably onto something.
Your non–profit organization
promotes women’s rights? NIIICE! But why exactly
am I not poster material? What is it? My wrinkles? My leg of bone?
My accent?
Bend over, child,
I am lately hard of hearing.
I’ll have to watch my cholesterol
if I continue like this much longer.
I heard you are “kickstarting”
a comic book about my exploits.
Why do I have those boobs again? For your record
I am a thousand years old, and dead.
And why on earth would I know karate
and practice it in garters?
You say everything gets funded? Well,
“everything” turns into tapeworms and toadstools too,
especially when I am full.
This day is fried. It’s time to retire
with my pocketbook of bones,
with my checkbook of birch bark,
in my dress of twigs,
in my airborne mortar.
But if you know of upcoming
causes worthy of my charity,
send me a note by mushroom post.
