Born lonely to a family of twelve
not beautiful, more like a shoe worn in,
divinely tall, not less
divinely fraught.

Nine years  of  pettage nevermore befell
to goat
to rodent,
and a hapless gull.

The girl, the woman’s shadow
reaching out.
The adolescent tying
each to each.

A pamphlet
on a London omnibus
she pocketed in her
great gaberdine,

then mid-life crisis brought about a son
but civil war past lives got in between
and stemmed attachment
to her only kin.

Inclement weather, fretting
by the Louvre
secured her fate,
she hadn’t brought her coat.

So in the rain she shivered
feeling churlish.
Her bête-noire came late,
but Death came early.


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